


Love to Live

by Ramzes



Series: Targaryens: Times of Glory [20]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:52:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramzes/pseuds/Ramzes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unrestful reign of Aegon the Unlikely is coming to its end. The Black Dragon is preparing to make his last stand. And a woman who never envisioned that her life would go this way suddenly has to love it she wants to have one. A life, that is. Not really necessary to read in order to understand the rest of the stories in Spears of the Sun. A spinoff and kind of sequel of Live to Love. Officially AU now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foreboding

**Author's Note:**

> I planned this as a part of my Live to Love story but I realized that, in fact, it doesn't quite fit. My main OC would marry Aegon V's youngest son but this isn't his story, it's hers before him. On the other hand, events and consequences from this fic still affect some details of my AU stories Lady of Dorne and The Victors, so I decided it would be better just to have this one done, instead of doing lengthy A. N.s of explanations.

The salty kiss of sea and caress of the wind were always a company Aelinor Gargalen enjoyed greatly. Especially this sea and this wind. The sun over Salt Shore made the Summer Sea far lovelier than the Narrow Sea she had last seen in the day she left King's Landing.

Forever.

It felt weird, to know that her life was no longer there. She had been born there, spent much of her life in the Red Keep. But now, she would be a woman wed and her future lay on these shores. Not that she had minded leaving the capitol too much – tensions there had started running too high for her liking.

Her uncle wouldn't really force Rhaella and Aerys to wed, would he?

She stared hard in the blue and gold radiance of the sea, trying not to think of the bleak despair in their faces as the King's resolve grew. She couldn't help them. And she shouldn't feel guilty for her own good fortune, either. Eltor Dayne had been chosen for her but she had loved him from the start – since she had arrived here a few months ago to make sure she was prepared to adopt her part of a Dornish lady and wife and handle it brilliantly.

In front of her, the Summer Sea glowed like her heart. Indeed, she feared that a single heart could not hold so many hopes and happiness! The waves came to lend her their warmth, brilliant and pale green, and the dark blue depths called to her with a male voice. _And female capriciousness_ , Aelinor reminded herself, for fierce gales and drowned souls were not a prerogative of the Narrow Sea alone. Still, today she only heard the song and saw the blue hand presenting her with the gift of happiness, as wide as the sea itself.

"Why are you alone?"

She spun around, the pounding of her heart calming down immediately after recognizing the newcomer. "Because I can," she replied. "Because I wanted to. How did you know where I was?"

Her brother shrugged. "Doran," he said, by the way of explanation.

Aelinor shook her head and laughed. "I should have known," she said. "This boy has eyes on his back and another pair on each shoulder. Is there _anything_ going on around that he doesn't know about?"

"Not my fault," Alric Gargalen said, quite defensively.

_Of course._ In this respect, her nephew took entirely after his mother, which was a good thing for a future ruler. Aelinor gave some credit to the boy's prolonged staying in the viper nest that was King's Landing, too. As his uncle Mikkel Gargalen's squire, Doran had followed him to the capitol when Mikkel had been forced to take over his ailing father's duties as the King's Hand. The boy had looked just as happy as Aelinor to leave. But he had learned some lessons there, too, no doubt.

"When I left, he was in the bailey… with his back to me," she went on, amused.

"Enough talk about my son." Alric's dark eyes were suddenly serious, holding her purple ones with purpose. "I came to ask you whether… whether you think we might postpone the wedding."

Despite the warm day, Aelinor shivered. Her hand reached for her forehead and removed a suddenly offending lock of silver hair. "Why?" she asked. "What happened?"

Alric sighed. "What not." He paused. "Father is dead, Aelinor," he said flatly.

For a while, they were both silent. To Aelinor's surprise, tears welled in her eyes. She knew that she should be happy for her father who had finally found relief from a life that had been no life in the last two years but she could not help it: she grieved for who he had been before ailment changed and chained him.

Alric held out a hand and she let him hold her, the wind drying their tears.

"That is not all," her brother went on after a while, in husky voice. "On his deathbed, he tried to get the King to denounce that wood witch. Uncle started _promising_ that he would follow, that he wouldn't force Aerys and Rhaella to wed."

"And?" Aelinor asked, feeling creeps running down her back.

Alric's arms held her tighter. "Father died before the King could finish. _"I pro…"_ he said, and Father died."

The girl fervently tried to understand what that meant. She might have seen only eighteen namedays but she had celebrated most of them in the Red Keep. "He won't keep his promise," she breathed, not quite believing her own words. Surely her uncle wouldn't think of not honouring a promise made to his long-time friend? His Hand? His goodbrother? He wouldn't renege on a promise made to a dead man? The very thought of it stirred dark fear deep within her.

"He doesn't think an unfinished promise is binding," her brother confirmed. "Aerys and Rhaella will be wed in less than a moon."

The sympathy she felt for her childhood friends immediately gave way to horror. "What about Mikkel?" she asked, holding her breath.

Alric laughed bitterly. "Don't you know our big brother? It didn't sit well with him at all. He claimed that politics, he'd understand, but forcing them to wed each other because of a prophecy was either lunacy, or a very grand design that he couldn't possibly fathom. He threw back the badge of Hand that Uncle tried to give him, had words with Jaehaerys, claimed that he had had enough of them and their madness, and left King's Landing."

Mikkel and Jaehaerys being at loggerheads! Over such a thing as a _prophecy_? Aelinor shook her head and clung to Alric tighter. "So he and Mother are coming home?"

"They only stayed as long as they needed to bury Father. The King wanted a grand funeral but Mother refused and when Daella Targaryen refuses, well, you don't do it."

Aelinor's tears kept falling. She had lost her father and as if that was not bad enough, the family was drawing a divide over his very grave. "Do they want me to postpone the wedding?" she asked. "So they can be present? If they are on their way?"

Alric shook his head and pushed her slightly back, so he could look her in the eye. "No. It was my idea. I suppose they'll be pleased to attend. And anyway, do you feel like being wed almost over Father's grave?"

Aelinor didn't need to think twice. She looked at the sea and suddenly saw it cold, glinting with fake light. "No," she whispered.

"Can we really afford to postpone?"

Alric looked on his right where his lady wife had materialized all of a sudden. Naturally, the truth was that they just hadn't noticed her arrival.

Arianne Martell, Lady of Dorne, sat on a big boulder nearby. The sea splashed over the hem of her dress but she didn't seem to care. Her huge black eyes took them in steadily.

"Why aren't you resting?" Alric asked. After their arrival late last night, he had assumed that Arianne would keep to her rooms. She had given him a son not even a moon ago and while both mother and child were healthy – something that he cherished very much after their two sons' deaths and the fright they had had last year with Elia's birth, - caution was always good.

She shrugged his concern off with a small gesture. "I am fine, Alric, I assure you. Aelinor? Will you join me?"

The girl did so since the rock was big enough for both of them to sit comfortably. Side to side, they were the exact same height. But when they were standing, Aelinor, who was by no means tall, towered a head taller. Her legs just kept going and going while Arianne was a petite brunette – no doubt one of the reasons some of her lords thought she was more biddable than a ruler ought to. It was hard to take orders from a woman two heads shorter than yourself.

Most of these troublemakers had come to attend the wedding already. No doubt they wouldn't take well to being denied their entertainment. And keeping them a few weeks more at Salt Shore was simply not an option. They would deplete the warehouses entirely.

"Your father always wanted the wedding to take place," she said. "He knew how important it was to prove…"

"Yes, yes," Alric interrupted. "I think we've both heard it a thousand times. Gods, how weary I am of always having to prove something to someone! I started when I was two year old and it doesn't look like I'll get to stop, ever! And Aelinor can use some delay before she starts proving, too. Why, Arianne, can't you see? There is no use! We cannot turn time back and _not_ be born at King's Landing to the King's daughter, no matter how hard we try."

He spun around and walked away without a single word. Both women stared after him, not daring to look at each other.

Arianne's breath hissed between her teeth when she saw the figure approaching him where coast met dry land. "If he takes off with this blonde bauble…" The threat was left hanging.

Aelinor gave her a look of surprise. Given her brother and Arianne's extraordinary… arrangements… she was quite stunned by this display.

"You would… have words with him?" she asked. Surely she must have gotten something wrong.

"Of course." Arianne's eyes glinted. "What would you have me do, compete with this boring, simpering child for my husband's affections? She's been placing herself in his way since before I went into my confinement."

All of a sudden, Aelinor felt that she was falling into a quagmire that all her years in King's Landing hadn't prepared her for. "For the life of me, I cannot understand you! You never cared about his women in the months you spent apart. You even have…"

"I never have anyone while he's here," her goodsister spat. "And by the Seven, he won't have one either!"

Aelinor blinked. She could understand a marriage of fidelity, for that was what her parents had. She could understand a more… unchaste one, too. What she couldn't understand was the mix of licentiousness and passions she now discovered between Alric and Arianne.

Holding their breath, the two women saw him approaching the newcomer. To Aelinor's enormous relief, he only nodded and kept walking along the coastline. Arianne exhaled deeply and bowed her head. "I am not being fair to him, I guess," she admitted, reluctantly. "He hasn't stayed in one place for more than two weeks in months, with Yronwoods using my confinement to stir trouble and what has been happening in Essos. He's very tired and disheartened. And now, this news about your father is a new blow to him. He's on the verge of his nerves and I am not helping."

"You've been troubled yourself," Aelinor reminded her. In the bright sun, with her feet stretched before her so the sea could splash over them, it was easy to forget that the Lady of Dorne was no mischievous child but a woman who had suffered losses. With Mors and Olivar's deaths and Elia's frail health, Arianne had spent her last pregnancy in extreme anxiety. No one could blame her for being unable to help her husband deal with his own burden.

Arianne's dark eyes did not leave Alric's frame. "Still. I am not being fair."

Not being fair not by assuming that he'd take a mistress but that he'd do that in her presence? Not being fair by taking it for granted that he'd just become reconciled with things like interests and politics and go on to prove his loyalty to Dorne once again? Aelinor was suddenly so very pleased that she wouldn't have to balance the responsibility of a ruler with love and passion, and jealousy, and what not. She would only have to take care of her own husband and family.

"What's going on in Essos?" she asked, to steer the conversation in a safer direction. "I only know he's concerned with those so called Ninepenny Kings…"

Arianne shivered. "He's written to King's Landing, many times," she said. "And he wants me to summon a council immediately after the wedding. After his last visit to the Free Cities, he's convinced that the beast Maelys Blackfyre will try to seize the crown once more."

She rose in all her short stature and gave her young goodsister a look of extreme sympathy. "I am sorry about that, Aelinor," she said. "I don't wish you to get wed under the shadow of your father's death, truly. But we cannot afford any delay. I mean to have the lords and ladies convene here, at Salt Shore, the very day after the wedding. Should we postpone it, many of those intending to attend won't bother to come. And Lord Alor… he wanted this match."

Arianne's excuses kept going through Aelinor's ears without much notice. _Alric was right_ , she was thinking bitterly. _We have to prove over and over that we're loyal. We had to prove it to the rest of the realm who didn't want a Dornishman for Hand of the King. Now, we have to prove that we don't think ourselves above the rest of Dorne. Is it ever going to end?_

When she finally tore the black cloud of bitterness wrapping itself over her mind, Arianne was already far away. Aelinor saw her approach Alric in the distance. She was probably saying something to him, for he was shaking his head. They were too far away for her to see their expressions or hear their words but it became clear what transpired between them when Arianne sat him on the nearest rock and held him close. A moment later, he rested his head against her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

_He's the blood in my veins, the marrow in my bones_ , Arianne had said, simply, when Aelinor had once gathered courage to ask her whether she loved her husband. And still, she could never keep to an empty bed, it seemed, although she never strayed when he was home. Of course, he was no better…

_I'll never live like this_ , Aelinor vowed and summoned the face of her betrothed in front of her. _I'll marry the Sword of the Morning, the second son of a lesser House, and I'll be happy in the most ordinary way. No scandal will ever come across my way and no major disturbance._

 


	2. The Black Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Riana1, for the review. You keep me inspired.

The wedding took place in the great sept of Salt Shore, the one a long dead ancestor with a peculiar sense of humour had decided to built upon one of the sheer cliffs dropping vertically into the sea. To not encourage anyone to spend too much time with the Seven, Aelinor's father had said, jokingly, and indeed, if one lingered here too long, the pleasant breeze coming from the Summer Sea took a decidedly unpleasant touch.

The sept was full with the flower of Dornish nobility, minus the Yronwoods and those who allied themselves with them. Everyone in there knew that the wedding was not only a union of a man and a woman, as highborn as they were, but a declaration of loyalty. Arianne Martell was, therefore, quite pleasantly surprised to see many faces she hadn't really expected. Of course, she'd set some tests for them to pass but… Well, for now, she could relax and concentrate on the beauty of the ceremony. Aelinor was such a radiant bride, more than even Arianne herself had been, because for all the rapport she and Alric had always shared, she had not loved him. Not at their wedding. But the girl had been smitten with her betrothed from the moment she laid her eyes upon him. Arianne couldn't fault her, for Eltor Dayne was truly a sight to behold even without his pale sword. Fair hair and purple eyes, and those nice broad shoulders… She smiled and shook her head. One of the unspoken rules between her and Alric was that they'd never bed each other's friends, for that might cause unwanted tensions. Too high a price, in their joint opinion. And a good thing it turned out to be now, for Aelinor did hold some views about morals and fidelity that clashed with Arianne's quite soundly. _Blessed be the Seven my lord grandfather insisted that Alric be brought up in Dorne,_ she thought. Otherwise, he might have turned out to hold the same views as his sister and where was the fun in that?

Outside, the road, the cliff, and the terrain around were thronged with excited spectators, for in addition to the guests' retinues, almost everyone from the castle had turned out to see their young lady wed the man who, at twenty five, had made his name echo all over Dorne. Looking at the couple standing before the septon, Arianne could almost believe all the tales of romantic love bards sang. What was even more romantic was the fact that they had actually said their vows in front of the sea, as the old custom allowed, with only Arianne and Alric in attendance, so they could consummate their passion before their wedding in the eyes of the Seven.

Alric's hand covered hers and she curved her fingers, to better accommodate it. _I wish the two of you the same happiness that we share_ , she thought. "And a different means to achieve it," her husband murmured in her ear. Once again, he had read her thoughts. Sometimes, that infuriated her. On other occasions, like now, it made her smile.

A sharp cry arose from the outside, followed by another one. Everyone's head swerved to the open door. And then, the screaming truly started, and those nearest to the door went out to see what was going on.

"What is it?" Arianne cried out but her words were drowned in the ever increasing noise from the outside. People started spilling out, for in the great windowless space, they would be trapped like quarry. In the havoc outside, Arianne recognized the unmistakable clash of steel.

And of course, none of their guests was armoured, their swords and spears safely away in the castle armoury as custom of hospitality, obeisance to their liege lady, and wedding traditions dictated.

The huge door was slammed shut with a clang that produced a huge gust of wind. The candles flickered and died, leaving them in semi-darkness.

The women started screaming.

Alric squeezed his wife's hand more tightly. "Stay here" he said, his voice low and collected. "I have to find Doran."

She returned the squeeze. "I don't plan on leaving," she jested, although her heart was in her throat.

The screams from the outside intensified as everyone listened. Men started talking about forcing the door open, yet everyone realized that they would probably find swords waiting for them. The air in the closed room starting getting thick. Arianne stared at the bright spot in front of her – Aelinor's wedding dress, glittering silver velvet with gold threads and embroidered pearls, trying to collect her thoughts.

Suddenly, Alric was next to her, holding her hand. "We have to break this door," Arianne said.

"Yes."

They had both concluded that anything else was preferable to standing here and waiting for the assailants to come.

"Break the door!" Arianne ordered loudly, and heads turned to her.

"Yes, my lady, but… we don't have instruments…" someone murmured.

"Yes, we do," Alric stated.

Everyone's eyes followed him as he headed for the two alters between which his sister and Eltor stood, the ceremony not yet completed.

"My… my lord!" the septon stammered, horrified. "This is an affront to the Seven!"

"The Seven will understand, good septon," Alric assured him. "And if not, I'll shoulder the blame on my own."

"Not quite," the bridegroom corrected, rolling up his sleeves to help Alric lift the huge statue of the Father.

A few of the other men ran to help. Arianne saw her goodbrother Carral among them. The septon stepped back and looked at Arianne in a mute plea which she ignored.

The door of the sept banged open, filling the sept with dazzling light.

Till the end of her days Arianne would remember the man who entered first, his huge sword in his hands, his huge body and head… and the smaller one growing on the side of his neck, the face pinched in eternal agony. She had heard of him and shivered. She should have been prepared, yet she was not.

He stepped right in front of her, men with bare blades in hands spreading all around to keep the guests at their place.

"You're Alric Gargalen," he stated, staring over Arianne's head at her husband. "I recognized you."

"And you're Maelys Blackfyre," Alric replied. "I recognized you, as well."

They locked eyes, neither willing to give up.

"A brilliant timing," Alric acknowledged. "I don't suppose you'll tell me who your informant was?"

Maelys laughed. "First things first, eh? No, my lord, I will not tell you."

_You don't need to_ , Arianne thought. It would have been nice for Alric if he had managed to lure out a confirmation in full hearing of everyone. It would have made things easier legally. But as to where Blackfyre had obtained his information from, she had no doubt.

"Have you come to attend the wedding, maybe?" she asked, doing her best to sound as controlled as the two men.

He looked down, and down, and down, until his eyes finally met hers. "By the gods, I have heard you were tiny but I never envisioned you were quite that small," he murmured. "No, my lady, I have not," he declared loudly. "I have come with a more important purpose in mind. I have come to claim my birthright."

Arianne stared back, relieved that the second head's eyes were closed. She didn't think she could have made it without screaming if she had to deal with two pair of eyes in a single person. "You are so eager to have your blood spilled at the second Redgrass Field?" she inquired, and his mouth twitched.

Through the open door, she could see a number of the attackers holding the crowd at bay. It was not hard to reconstruct what had happened: their guards had been not as vigilant as they should have, carried away by the general mood of entertainment. And with anyone within a mile of the castle having come here to watch the wedding, it had been no problem for Maelys and his people to land in one of the many coves nearby and launch their attack. She only hoped there weren't too many casualties.

His hand shot forward to grasp her chin angrily; Alric's followed just as fast, stopping the huge paw a breath away from her face. "Take your hands off my wife," he spoke softly, dangerously.

The monster just shrugged and tried to release his hand. Alric held it just long enough to show that he was serious, and Arianne saw the surprise written on Maelys'… main face. Just like people who saw her first were surprised when she acted like a woman, Alric's slender frame deceived many, for under his finery, he was all muscle and sinew.

"I am not interested in her," Maelys claimed. "She's too… used."

Alric's hand instinctively reached for the sword that was not there, and Arianne gripped his hand before he could pound his fist into Maelys' massive face.

The intruder's eyes slowly went to the two statues of the deities and the bride standing between them; instinctively, the Sword of the Morning drew Aelinor behind him as Maelys made a step towards them. Purple eyes met purple eyes. _Don't you dare,_ Eltor warned silently but without his sword, he was all but a mere man, albeit a strong one.

Maelys smiled coldly. "The Sword of the Morning," he said, dragging the words lazily. "I've heard much about you. Would you like to put your sword into a service of a real man, instead of a slip of woman?"

Eltor didn't look away. "No," he said curtly.

Maelys raised his bushy eyebrows. "No?" he echoed. "I can offer you the greatest honours in Westeros. What do you have now? Do you even have a place to take your bride to, except for what your brother sees fit to give you?"

"I'd rather not discuss family matters right now," Eltor declared.

Maelys stared at him uncomprehendingly. "I am giving you the world and you say no?"

"I am the Sword of the Morning," Eltor spat, his composure cracking. "I am not one of your hirelings."

Aelinor clung to her hand. Arianne almost opened her mouth in warning. _Be silent_ , she wanted to scream. _Be silent. Don't you see? You were the first person he addressed with such a proposal – and you threw it back in his face. He cannot let it go even if he wanted…_

Maelys nodded. "I see. That's why you'll be punished. Along with three of the rest."

His eyes searched around for the most distinguished-looking among the guests. "You, you and you," he said, and a chorus of protests arose. "Unless you're willing to swear allegiance to me as your lawful king?"

None of them did.

"No!" Arianne yelled and stepped forward. "Whatever you're doing, do it to me!"

"Don't tempt me, my lady," he warned and the shouts behind them became louder as the guests tried to break free, the anger at their lady being threatened overriding common sense. Arianne saw the three men holding Alric in place and was relieved. Bloodshed was so very near.

Her mind was working fervently, trying to come up with solution, finding none. Vaguely, she realized that there must have been a major breakthrough her spy net, for there was no way her people in the Free Cities didn't know about the Golden Company setting sails for Westeros. But she would not think about it now. She had to find a way to save the doomed ones. But how?

"Leave us," Aelinor spoke. Her voice was shaking but her chin was firm. "It's our wedding day," she went on. "Let us finish the wedding."

Arianne latched on to this hope immediately. Eltor wasn't a brigand, or a criminal. By the old custom spread in Dorne and other parts of Westeros, if an innocent maiden wished to wed someone convicted to death, usually that would mean saving his life, provided that the offense was not too great. That was the way for Maelys to solve his predicament – sparing Eltor without looking weak, thus winning credit through Westeros, since killing men for no better reason than their allegiance might resonate better with one's own people, keeping them in check and hopeful for spoils taken from the enemy but it also made resistance grow stronger: after all, who'd want to come to service to someone whose first response to every disagreement was "Kill them"? Eltor Dayne was well known through the Seven Kingdoms, he was no ordinary man. And if he could be spared by the reasoning of his wedding, why not the rest of those Maelys had pointed out in anger?

He slowly nodded.

In the light of the descending sun entering the sept in a huge single ray, Aelinor's hair looked brighter, wrapped in flames. Whispers rippled through the crowd, for in a bizarre game of nature, the light came at such an angle that it only lit the bride fully. The terrified septon was a ghost flickering in and out of shadows, busy with the ritual, and the bridegroom was cast in the dark marble of impenetrable shadow, for all his pale fairness.

_He won't spare him._

The thought came to Arianne all of a sudden, yet she took it without surprise. From where she was, she could see Aelinor's profile and in the tight set of her jaw, the eye that was so unblinking that it was clear the bride was trying to prevent a tear from falling down, she read that the girl did not believe he'd be saved, either. But she had to try. _Wouldn't I have tried, had it been Alric standing there?_ She would have… now. But at the time of their wedding? She truly did not know. She only knew that she'd never forget the stirring of the wind, almost imperceptibly, and she knew it was the Stranger. There, with them, linking his pale hand through Aelinor's icy one. In this moment, it felt like he'd never go away. Arianne shivered with superstitious fear.

The septon said something that she missed and looked around. Silently, Lady Dayne, Eltor's goodsister, stepped forward with her small son in her arms. "Mama?" the child asked and whimpered in fear, his eyes drawn to the monstrous man.

"Be still, Arthur," she murmured. "He cannot take you."

To Arianne's surprise, the child did not start screaming. His eyes were still fixed on the terrible man and his chin was trembling but he did not make a sound even when his mother handed him over to the bride and the septon started muttering the blessing for Aelinor to give birth to healthy children. The whisper of the Stranger grew louder as the rest of the ceremony went through.

"Come on," Alric told her. The hands holding him fell down, as if even the invaders did not dare stop him from offering congratulations. He caught her by the hand and she felt the shiver going through his fingers, even as he hugged both his sister and her new husband. Arianne and the rest of their families followed, wishing them a happy days, and still everyone's eyes were attracted to the gleaming steel of the blades.

Aelinor made a step forward. "Mercy," she whispered. "By all written and unwritten laws, have mercy."

Maelys Blackfyre stared at her pale hair, the perfect oval of her face under the transparent shimmering veil, the graceful figure in the magnificent wedding gown under her new lavender cloak. "I am the law," he said. "And I say no."

Arianne saw the moment Aelinor's strength left her. She stumbled forward and then backward. Had Eltor not steadied her, she would have slumped on the floor.

A cry rang out. Arianne spun round. Near the door, a desperate fight had broken out between armed attackers and unarmed guests. It spread around before she could filly register what was going on. Scarlet blood smeared the floor of the sept.

Alric pushed her to the relative safety of one side and wrestled one of the newcomers for his sword.

"Let go!" someone yelled and Arianne felt a bare blade on her neck. "Let go or she's dead!"

A quick look around showed her that no one had recognized Doran among the other boys. She sighed with relief and quickly looked aside, to see her people cease the fighting. No one would risk her life. Cursing, Alric threw the sword down.

The hand holding her released her grasp and she reached out for Aelinor who had slumped in mute despair against the statue of the Mother, as if her legs could no longer support her weight. "Don't look up," she murmured but the bride could not look away. Neither could Arianne.

The head rolled around and stopped at Aelinor's feet, the purple eyes still open. Maelys Blackfyre put his sword aside, still smeared with blood.

Everyone cried out, as if through a single throat.

Aelinor reached for the head; shaken, Arianne thought she'd place it in her lap, with the blood still flowing.

A huge hand reached for the bride's shoulder and dragged her to her knees. A sword of shining steel and dripping vermillion came to rest in front of her face. "Suck it," he spat. "Suck it as you did _him_." And he gave the headless body still twitching in last spasms a cursory look.

Tearful, shaking, gagging, Aelinor did. There, in front of everyone. She had to, otherwise Maelys Blackfyre would kill her upon the spot. Clinging to Alric, Arianne only prayed that the men now back holding him would actually hold him, as he fought them with all his might, his burning eyes fixed on his helpless sister holding in her mouth the blade that had just killed her new husband. A single slight push would be enough to see its point on the other side of her throat.

At the end, though, he stopped his efforts, albeit slowly. Reason had returned. Arianne went faint with relief. "If I make it through this, Edgar Yronwood will regret this day," he rasped.

Usually, Arianne was quick to remind him that if people followed the law "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" to its natural end, everyone would go blind and no one would eat. But not now. She'd happily leave him take his revenge. Seven hells, she'd gladly assist him in any way she could.

At the end, Maelys Blackfyre grasped Aelinor's arm and started walking her towards the door. She did not protest – but she did not consent either. She just left him drag her along without her making any steps. Her wedding gown was spattered in huge scarlet stains, like rubies. Her amethyst eyes lacked any expression, as if the thread of her thought had finally broken. Looking after them, Arianne shuddered anew as the last light of the sun bathed them in soft red-gold glow, like newlyweds.

 


	3. The Days After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Riana1 and Baelorfan, for reviewing!

The lord's bedchamber was entirely dark. Maelys Blackfyre scowled and made note to have the servants whipped. But that would have to wait. He took one of the torches in their sconces on the walls of the hallway and pushed it in one of the sconces in the bedchamber. Flickering red light made shadows swim in the spacious chamber with expensive rugs and fine tapestries. _He doesn't live this bad at all, this lord_ , Maelys thought scathingly. The dressing table with multitude of vials, combs, and little engraved boxes showed that Lady Gargalen also lived here or at least, slept here often enough to make herself comfortable. He had had the auburn-haired woman pointed to him earlier today. A beauty, a real beauty. How was it possible that there were men who had power, and home like this, and a wife like Lady Isanne? All Maelys ever remembered was battles. His home was his tent, his best friend – his stallion.

At least the horse didn't care what he looked like.

She was still on the bed where he had left her. Still curled on her side with her arms around her knees. The stony castle had been designed to keep the oppressing heat away but that meant that at night, it became quite cool and she had shivers running through her body but it looked like the she could not find as much thought as to rise and put something on or at least, draw the coverlet over herself. He had cut the bloodied wedding gown off her and she now lay in her shift alone. Her eyes stared straight at him but they had been looking in this direction before.

He crossed the chamber and grasped her shoulder. She neither looked at him nor pushed him away. It was as if she didn't even see him.

He climbed on the bed and knelt before her. Turned her on her back. Uncurled her. Her hand was bruised black where the young Dayne had clasped it during the ceremony.

She had grown feeble-minded. She was ugly. But not ugly enough to repel him. He saw her the way she had been just a few days ago, smiling at her fair-haired knight, writhing under him, holding him, crying out in pain the first day and then pleasure, in the next ones. Stroking Eltor Dayne's skin. Studying him as if he was the most interesting thing under this blue sky. Letting him hold her.

There was none of her beauty left now. Everything about her was lifeless, wooden, contorted. Her eyes glinted with the wet brilliance of a lilac-shrub immediately after raining but she was not crying. Not seeing. Drool dribbled from one corner of her slack mouth that would not open or close fully even to cry out in fear. But Maelys did not see this face of a madwoman. He saw his memory. The woman on the bed was warm, supple, giving. She would be his compensation for all that her ancestors had taken from him. Her body would be the warmth that would pleasure him, give him the feeling of strength he needed to finish his conquest and bring justice.

She was still staring at him without seeing him.

He reached for her shift and tore it. Caught her by the shoulders. Reached between her legs.

Her arms were still lying on the coverlet like birds with broken wings. She didn't raise them to reach for him or even push him away.

He had been prepared for crying, pleading for mercy, shouting, howling, a fight even. In the least, she should have screamed, so everyone would know that she was being raped. That was the only way she could preserve the honour she was supposed to have. But she didn't. And this lifeless indifference got to him in a way that he didn't remember from all the cities he had taken, all the women he had forced himself on. This woman was resisting not only what he was doing with her, she was denying what he was. Maelys Blackfyre was dread, feared by everyone – and she could not be reached.

As he plunged inside her irresponsive body, he realized that her eyes were staring straight at the second head growing from his neck. Even that could not shake her. She did not look away.

Cursing, he pushed her away and she obediently fell on her back, staring up at the ceiling. He reached for her, shook her. "Say something, you red bitch. Say something! Why are you silent?"

She was like a rag doll in his hands. All of a sudden, he felt the burning desire to clasp those hands around her neck and squeeze the life out of her. She had erected a wall that he could not take down and he felt cheated. Being mad, she could not give him what she had given to the young Dayne – and she could not give him even the brief pleasure of feeling his power over someone who would have rejected him if given the chance. Just like all other women had…

He brushed her aside. She flew off the bed, fell on the floor, so heavily that her head rebounded, and remained in this unnatural pose, with one leg bent beneath her, the upper length of an arm beneath her cheek and her eyes unmoving, still with that unsettling brightness.

He stepped over her, undressed, and went to bed.

When he woke up early in the morning, he frowned in disgust and called the handmaidens to wash her wooden body… as well as the rug.

* * *

Alric woke up suddenly and looked frantically around. In the darkness, his dreams of blood and betrayal were sharp enough to make his mind blur the line between dream and reality. But in the three days that had passed since the overtaking of Salt Shore, the two had been entwined so closely that sometimes, the line remained blurred even when he was awake. The guests who had come to attend the wedding had been imprisoned in various rooms. Alric and Arianne had been taken to the one they always shared when they came to Salt Shore. They had not been allowed to set a foot outside and their servants had been allowed to come three times a day to serve their meals and take the chamber pot out only under the guard of a few of Maelys' men. Naturally, not a word could be spoken, although Alric hoped Doran's identity was still undiscovered. What he could see through the windows was no doubt only a small bit of the events – but it was enough to make his blood curdle.

Never the one to give much thought to weather and its capricious nature, he had nonetheless spent too much time in Essos recently and that, combined with the dreams that still clung to him, finally made him roll over and reach for Arianne's warmth.

Without waking up, she stirred a little to accommodate him, pressing his hand to her heart. But a little later, she was suddenly wide awake as well, her ragged breathing showing that she was trying to find her way back from the same bleak place Alric had just visited.

For a long time, they stayed snuggled against each other, stroking each other's skin, drawing comfort and bearings from the familiar touch. "He cannot stay here forever," Arianne finally said. "And if he activity in the courtyard is something to be taken into account, he doesn't intend to. Do you think he'll use Salt Shore as a base to attack… Sunspear?"

Despite her best efforts, there was a visible touch of fear to her voice. Sunspear was their power base; should they lose it, they'd soon lose the entire Dorne, as well. And the Water Gardens were so near, with Elia and their newborn son there, so little and so ignorant of the cloud of danger gathering around.

He answered so quickly that she realized he must have thought it over as often as she had. "No. Sunspear is expecting us to come back and when we don't, there will be questions. And when none of the others goes back home, you can bet that there'll be men sent to find out what's going on… and some precautions taken against fate, just in case. We don't employ fools, you know."

"But the Yronwoods…" she started and her voice trailed off. The possibilities were just too terrible to think about.

He ran a hand over her hair. "That's what I'm scared of, too. But I believe they won't dare move too soon, for that will show that they knew what had transpired here before they could have possibly know… if they were innocent."

She pressed his hand against her cheek. They both knew the Yronwoods weren't innocent… and they would have to find a way to prove it. But that would have to wait until they found a way to solve their current predicament. Arianne went to finish her consort's thought. "And if they wait for too long, there will be some notion of the events here spreading. I am sure people are already wondering why none of us here has returned. Sunspear will be ready for them."

"If they reach this far," Alric agreed and she thought that there might be a dark smile on his face in the darkness. "They'll have to march straight next to Godsgrace. Do you think Lady Delonne's castellan would just let a considerable number of them pass, be it on horseback or water, when he hasn't had a word from his lady for so long… and maybe rumours would be spreading?"

So many ifs. So many suppositions. For now, the possibility of Blackfyre and the Yronwoods joining forces to crush the Red Dunes looked most likely. And from there… Arianne hated to think what might happen then.

"It won't come to this," Alric said. "Our current… guests aren't going to enjoy our hospitality for very long. You'll see. It'll be over soon… and then, I'll kill Edgar Yronwood."

Arianne shivered slightly. By betraying them, Lord Yronwood had signed his own death warrant. Sooner or later, in a year or twenty, Alric would enact the punishment. She could imagine the hands caressing her with such tenderness holding the lance or vial that would bring death.

He drew slightly away, feeling her uneasiness. "Does this bother you?" he asked.

She grasped his hand. "No," she said. "I always knew what you are. I don't care. It's just… chilling to know that a dead man walks among us."

"Dead he is," Alric agreed. Of course, he hadn't seen his sister since the moment Maelys Blackfyre dragged her out of the sept like a plaster doll but he could easily imagine what she was being subjected to. No one could do this to Aelinor and live.

He held Arianne once again as the first shimmer of dawn added a layer of gold to her skin. "It'll be over soon," he said once again.

"Are you sure?"

"Sure? Of course I am sure," he said, smiling. "I trust my brother. They have no idea that Mikkel is coming home. Had we not been in the sept, they would have never caught us like rats in their trap. This place is home to all kind of secret passages and chambers."

"But they'll soon get to know that he's left King's Landing," Arianne insisted. "They might be looking for him already."

Alric snorted derisively before smiling again. "This is Dorne and Salt Shore, Arianne," he said. "They'll only try to find him."

* * *

"Something is off."

The unmistakable worry in Arianne's voice made Alric come to the window immediately. The courtyard two floors below was full of men. Laughing. Drinking. Blackfyre's chief commanders, if their clothing could indicate their status. Consuming the last remains of what had been supposed to be Eltor Dayne's wedding feast.

"I have half of a mind to empty the chamber pot over their heads," Arianne said angrily, and he laughed despite everything because that was the thought he had just had himself. They were the perfect couple, ideally suited to each other's dreams of great politics, prosperity and… petty revenges.

His laughter soon died, though. His wife was right. Something was off. Eating them out of house and hearth and home was to be expected and Dornish wines were among the finest but… those men looked like they were anticipating something.

Arianne reached for his hand as in the windows next and opposite to theirs, people started appearing, looking out at the merry gathering. Alric spotted his brother Carral in the tower at his left side and raised his hand to his lips, imitating drinking. Carral shook his head, indicating that he had no idea what was going on either.

As the day started dying in the grasp of dusk, torches were brought… as well as something else. A straw mattress with a naked body tied to it. Dirty locks of silver hair fell haphazardly to the ground. Maelys Blackfyre entered the courtyard and stood aside, watching intently.

Till the end of his days, Alric considered the fact that he didn't throw up one of his greatest achievements. He was one of the first people to realize what was going on. Others who had also been to Essos caught up almost immediately.

Aelinor lay on the straw mattress without moving. Even from two floors above, something about her face struck Alric as not quite right. It was strangely expressionless. Did she realize what would happen? Alric had heard of the so called friendly sharing, meant to humiliate the woman and crush her pride, usually with her husband or father tied up, watching.

Now, he wasn't even tied up, yet he could do nothing but watch. Opposite to him, Carral was shouting and shaking the bars, trying to dislodge them. Alric looked down at his own hands and was stunned that they were doing the same.

The men gathered around Aelinor.

"Don't look," Arianne whispered, trying to drag him away from the window. "You cannot help her. Please, dear heart."

He silently released his arm, not moving from where he was and still trying to break the bars.

Beneath, the men started gathering around Aelinor. One of them squeezed her breast. Another reached for the place between her legs. Her face was still unnaturally calm – that was clearly visible in the light of torches brought in circle around her, as if this was some ritual from Alric's worst nightmares. Her body didn't even flinch in instinctive defense as the thick fingers entered more deeply. Had she been given something? Something that prevented her from realizing what was going on? Alric fervently hoped so.

"Oh Mother, oh Mother," someone was muttering and the voice was so changed with pity, and revulsion, and hiccupping tears that it took him some time to recognize it as his own wife's.

The men were just drawing sticks to determine who would be the first one to take the beautiful silver-haired girl with royal blood when Maelys Blackfyre suddenly changed the rules: he crossed the yard to the mattress and cut the ropes with a few confident strikes, forcing Aelinor's legs apart before opening his tunic. Alric watched the horrifying act hypnotized, with his tears running, his mouth dry and his hands still shaking the bars.

As soon as he was over, Maelys grabbed the young woman and carried her away, leaving shouts of fury all around in his wake.

Alric barely had the time to register what had happened when the handmaidens were brought in the yard, to mollify the men cheated out of their entertainment.

Unlike Aelinor, these women realized what was going on. The screaming and weeping filled Alric's head, leaving him to place to escape to, and he kept shouting and rattling the bars until it was all over, until there was no one left in the courtyard and then his strength suddenly left him and he slumped against the wall and in Arianne's arms.

 


	4. Silks and Steels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Riana1 and Baelorfan, for keeping this story alive!

Smooth as silk.

Maelys would not put her to sleep in her brother's bed – his bed now – out of fear of waking up in soiled sheets, for now she did everything small children did. But at night, after the handmaidens had washed and fed her, she looked as beautiful and pure as she certainly wasn't, like a princess from the songs bards sang. Her hair shone like a river of molten silver. Her skin was smooth as silk.

Out of all women he had taken in his life, she was the only one who didn't fear him, the only one who wasn't terrified by him. The only one he could examine with his palms and fingers without her cowering or wailing. Of course, he knew it wasn't for real, yet he found himself pretending that he didn't realize the truth about their situation – that when he placed her hand upon his shoulder, it stayed there because he had curled her fingers that way, not because she kept it there. When he took her, she didn't show fear only because she couldn't feel a thing. Yet his relationship with this beautiful doll with silky skin and dead eyes was the closest thing he'd ever have to acceptance. At least she didn't cringe at the sight of him.

She stayed wherever he placed her; she didn't utter a protest when he took Lady Isanne's silver hairbrush to brush her own hair out. His fingers were clumsy, unused to wielding such a fine object, and he cringed each time he encountered a knot but she didn't look as if she were in pain. When he was done, he would lean over and inhale the scent of the perfume the handmaidens applied to her neck and hair before carrying her to the bed.

In the second night after taking her in front of the entire castle, he was taken aback at finding himself stroking her pale cheek, parting her legs with care that he had never before given to any woman. The strange mix of ownership and desire to keep her safely away from all the men he had promised her to that had made him claim her in front of everyone slowly grew into a disturbing desire to make her feel as comfortable as possible. He knew it was madness, of course, but he still felt compelled to try.

And then, of course, she came to her senses. Or her feelings, at least.

Exactly one week had passed from the day of her wedding when he woke up to the sound of her screams. It was still night and when he lit the candle at the bedside, he saw Aelinor in the nightgown she had just thorn to shreds. Now, her hands were trying to tear her hair out as she howled like a fighting cat or a man-at-arms who would not have the decency to die quietly of his wounds. Dark gashes woozed blood all over her cheeks and arms.

Maelys had always been taught that Westerosi noble ladies were always dignified and self-controlled. Now, this girl from the Falseborn line whose blood was supposed to be inferior only to Aegon's own children's, kept proving him wrong. In her grief, there was no dignity, no self-restraint. In fact, he doubted there was even much thought. She slammed her head against the wall. Red blood blossomed against the pale tapestry. Seeing that she was going to repeat the motion, completely unfazed by the gaping gash in her skull, Maelys sprang to her and restrained her – barely. Compared to him, she was as fragile as a flower, yet he had great difficulty holding her. Aelinor Gargalen had gone mad. Her strength was that of madness and it was almost a match for Maelys' own physical, great power of a lifetime of battles. But not quite.

He held her as she fought – not against him, exactly, but against the memory of everything that had happened. When he felt that she had spent her energy, he let her go and watched fascinated as she raged and wept, calling out Eltor Dayne's name as if she could persuade him to return. She reached over and swept all the vials and small boxes from her goodsister's dressing table. Glass and powder showered all over the floor. The young woman reached out and grabbed a few hairbrushes and small looking-glassed that crashed and broke against the wall. The door opened a crack. Frightened faces appeared. Maelys waved them away and sat on the bed, looking at Aelinor, fascinated and numb, and watchful not to let her cause further harm to this silky skin of hers.

When she finally collapsed, he waited for a while and then came near, expecting to find her in the same neither dead nor alive state he had seen her in during their first night together.

She was breathing deeply. Sleeping.

He spent the day discussing the combined attack against Sunspear – both on land and sea – and trying to overhear something from the general direction of the lord's chambers. But if she had flown into a new fit of rage, it must be a quieter one, for he could not hear a thing.

As night drew near, he thought of finding another bedchamber from tonight but dismissed the idea immediately. Damn it, he wasn't running away from a mad whore! If anything, it would be her whom he might send to the doghouse – literally, if she gave him a single provocation!

But when he entered the chamber, he had to look at the scabs on her face and hands to make sure that the events from last night had taken place. She was sitting in a chair, freshly bathed and dressed in simple dark gown. Her hair, brushed out and shining, fell down her shoulders in a luminous river. When he came near, he saw that her lips were white and bitten all over. The blue bruises under her eyes looked like traces left by a man's fingers. There was no blood in her face but the crescent moons where she had thorn at her own cheeks gleamed scarlet, like few grinning mouths. The rugged raw wound went from her skull to her right temple. She gave him a level look, not whimpering in fear but not faking bravery either.

"Are you in pain?" Maelys asked.

There was confusion in her eyes and he looked at her temple to help her. She did not raise a hand to feel the wound as it could have been expected. "No," she said in a distant voice. "Nothing can hurt me anymore."

He held out a hand; slowly, reluctantly but showing no hesitation, she took it and let him take her to bed.

* * *

 _I hate him. I hate him. I hate him_ , Aelinor repeated over and over in her head while the disgusting act continued. But in this long day since she awoke, for first time in days in full possession of her faculties, she had had time to pore over her situation and come to the conclusion that her only way to survive lay with Maelys Blackfyre. She vaguely remembered the many men gathering around her in the courtyard – and how he had pushed them all away, claiming her for his own. The memory was blissfully faint and that was a good thing since she didn't think she could bear it if she knew what exactly had happened. She was moved by instincts alone – and they told her that the way to her survival was to cling to Maelys, find a way to bend him to her will at least enough to make him keep protecting her from the other brigands… until the time came for her to be free from her protector. As much as she wanted to curl back into a ball and sob, she no longer had this luxury. Eltor made an attempt to sneak back into her thoughts and she barely resisted the urge to shake _. I am doing this for you, too, my love,_ she thought at him. _I am._ _I cannot avenge you if I am dead – and he can kill me upon the spot if I anger him._ During this last day, her terror and grief had slowly congealed to icy resolve. She would live, and she would triumph. And she would see both of Maelys Blackfyre's heads on pikes! Else, she had no reason to gather her wits. It had been far easier when she had been senseless…

While bathing her, the handmaidens had whispered to her what was going on in the castle. Her brothers and their wives were still locked away in their chambers. No one disturbed the children in the nursery, save for the fact that there were guards at their door. But their attendants were smart enough not to show them out. Amazingly, but Doran had managed to keep his identity a secret so far and was roaming all over the castle. Aelinor thought she knew what her nephew had in mind but she reminded herself not to get overexcited. The Seven knew that she had gone through a most severe disappointment already.

But even more important than the news about the castle, the women could share with her the evidence of the brief moments that they had seen the monster of man sharing with her. And it confirmed to Aelinor what her own instinct already knew: she had to treat Maelys like any other man. Not with affection – he was too smart to buy it. But antagonizing him wouldn't bring her any good, either. And for the life of hers, she shouldn't let him see her revulsion. She had to tolerate him, bind him to her with whatever means she could find. Of course, she knew that anything short of outright defiance would bring her the greatest dishonour into the eyes of Westeros… but she didn't care. She wanted to live, survive… she would think about the rest later. For now, she only cared whether she'd see the sun rise ever again, meet the new day. And it depended on Maelys Blackfyre.

With bitter irony, she remembered how she had used to shiver with superstitious disgust at the tales of the two-headed man. Now, he could look like the handsomest man who had ever walked the earth, and her revulsion would not lessen even one bit. It was not his looks that scared her. It was the memory of what he had done there, in the sept. An image seared in her mind so that she would carry it with her for a lifetime and beyond.

* * *

The stench of fish, old sweat, stale food, and clothes that had not been changed in a week made Travas gag – no mean feat for someone who worked in the stables. The boy wondered how the Prince could smell himself without fainting. After all, Doran Martell was used to having the best…But he had to admit that the disguise was a perfect one. None of the enemies gave the reeking boy a second glance, let alone examine him closely. This way, Doran was free to go around the castle when he wasn't occupied with menial tasks of the crudest sort, many of them demanding things that Travas felt sure princes didn't even know _were_ done. But Doran was a talented student, learning quickly and working efficiently. And in his free time, he frequented some most peculiar places in the castle… at most peculiar times.

"Let's move these over," he now said and Travis gave him a look of dismay.

"All those shelves?"

"Quite right," Doran confirmed and started setting his own command in order. Grunting, the other boy leaned over to help, feeling a surge of fear when it looked like some presence had started helping them moving the heavy wooden shelves.

"But this is…" he started and then a part of the wall turned to one side and gaped open to reveal a vague silhouette in the darkness on the other side.

Travis was about to scream but Doran immediately slapped a hand over his mouth.

The man who had come through this newfound door now stopped in front of the boys.

"Uncle!" Doran whispered. "I knew you'd come."

The Lord of Salt Shore gave them a long look and then cracked a smile. "And here I was worrying about you," he said. "More fool I. Anyway, why is your smell so… interesting?"

"That's a part of fooling the fools," Doran explained and immediately went to practicalities. "It's a little after midnight, they usually change the sentries two times a night and the last patrol was here a short time ago…"

Once again, Lord Gargalen looked around his own cellar and then Doran. His smile died. "Are your parents well?" he asked.

The boy sighed. "They live, that's what I know. And Aunt Aelinor is now living in your chambers… with Maelys Blackfyre."

For a moment, Mikkel Gargalen's eyes flashed such anger that Travas almost made the sign against the evil eye, for his lord now looked just as fierce and pitiless as Maelys Blackfyre. His purple eyes looked like scarlet drops of blood. "He won't be using them for much longer," he promised as behind him, his men started pouring out. There weren't many of them but it was night and no one was expecting them. "You," he told the two boys. "Stay here. As to us, we're going to reclaim out home from those who clearly didn't read history. For someone who venerates the Young Dragon so, I'd think the Blackfyres would know just how easy it is to keep Dorne."


	5. Night of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who reviewed for keeping my own interest in the story alive!

 "The first thing I am doing when we're out of here," Alric murmured, "is giving him a good warming."

Arianne looked up from the table where she was trying to focus with a book and joined him at the window. Sure enough, she saw her son in the darkness, hurrying across the courtyard, headed for who knew where. "No one has found out who he is this far," she said. "With every passing day, the danger of him being discovered is diminishing."

"Not if he keeps wandering here and there in plain sight," Alric snapped.

He was right, of course. Arianne sighed and returned to her chair. Unfortunately, Doran might just find himself getting a hiding as likely as not. Alric's nerves were quite on edge with everything that had happened recently: his struggle to counter the Yronwoods' moves, his father's death, Aelinor's plea, what had happened to them… Her husband was never a man to sit quietly and he wouldn't start now, even imprisoned in this room: he paced it ceaselessly, kicking chairs, tables, and walls, until he exasperated even Arianne who was not so easily shaken. Now, though, her own state of mind was not yet as unflinchingly steady as usual. Too little time had passed after Oberyn's birth. And although she didn't have a drop of milk, her breasts still hurt. She and Alric were getting on each other's nerves the whole day and clinging to each other at night, trying to find a way to escape, assuring each other that it would soon end…

Finally, Arianne's patience ran out. "Please, would you stop?" she asked, referring to his pacing. "You're as anxious as a cat and you're making me so, too."

"I am sorry," he said and stopped in front of the window. Once again, she rose and went to him. He wrapped an arm around her waist and she leaned her head against his shoulder. They both stared out into the night.

The silhouettes appeared so swiftly that they might not have been certain that they had seen them at all, in those grey garbs, about twenty or thirty men crossing the courtyard. But one of them looked up, straight at their bright window, and then he reached up to take his hood off, his other hand holding Doran's. Mikkel!

Alric waved a hand to show that he had seen him, and then looked at Arianne and smiled. "We aren't going to sit here and wait for them to do the job, are we?" he said.

She smiled back and they immediately put in action the plan they had concocted in anticipation of Mikkel's return: Alric stood behind the door and Arianne went near, yelling that her husband was unwell and dying because they knew that was the only way to have this door opened. Just as they expected, the guard came in to see what was going on; Alric hit him on the head with the heavy copper basin and grabbed his sword before the man even hit the ground; tying him up, he ordered Arianne to lock the door behind him and not open up until it was all over. For a minute of madness, she thought of asking him to roll the unconscious man under the bed, so she would not have to look at him. But of course, he had no time to spare, so she only gave him a quick hug and bolted the door.

Alric headed down the hallway in a fast, but not overly hurried step. Knowing where the rest of the wedding guests must have been lodged, he could make a close enough suggestion where the guards would be. And if he, with all his notoriety, had been thought to merit only a single guard to keep him in check, he had little enough reason to believe that the rest of them would be given more.

He raised the sword and waited for a moment before turning the corner. The man guarding the door on his left did not have time to gasp, let alone raise the alarm.

Alric drew the sword back, unlatched the door, pushed it open and immediately stepped back, unwilling to risk the welcome he and Arianne had given the man guarding them – a caution that turned out to be well merited when two men burst out the door at the same time. "No, it isn't him," he spoke in a low voice. "It's me."

Lords Toland and Fowler gave him astounded looks before dragging the man in the chamber and divesting him of his weapons. There was a small argument over who would have his sword but Fowler thawed and reconciled himself with the morningstar.

"Go," Alric whispered. "On the lower floors, they will be situated in the same way as here. Take care of them."

"What about you, my lord?" Fowler asked.

"I am going to let our garrison free and lock their men in," Alric replied. "My brother is here. He is taking care of their officers, I think."

He had no fear for Mikkel, for now. Blackfyre had made a mistake in positioning his guards: by sequestering the Dornishmen in their own chambers, he had left himself blind to what was happening in the courtyard because one could see it only from the chambers. In this part of the castle, the hallways had no windows.

The road to the garrison's quarters was not a short one but Salt Shore was House Gargalen's seat. Alric knew ways and routes that the newcomers would not even think of. Soon enough, he was in front of the great building where he almost ran over his son who had clearly come here with the same purpose. "I swear, Doran Martell, once it's over, I'll give you such a warming that you'll need a cushion to seat on for a week!" he hissed under his breath. He had no doubt that Mikkel had ordered Doran to stay safely away. This was the boy's own initiative.

His anger melted into grudging respect when his son reached in his pocket to produce a big key. He had not been wasting his time, for sure! Alric put the brand new key in and turned it. "Now go to the granary and hide there," he said. "Do I, or else…"

His words were broken by the scream announcing the first clash in the castle.

* * *

No more than a minute had passed since the first shriek but it had been enough for Maelys to put some clothes on. He was just reaching for his massive sword when the heavy door creaked and burst open.

The hallway was full of men. The two young squires Maelys had set at his door lay dead in the twin pools of their own blood. A multitude of torches lit the newcomers, their drawn weapons and the fierce looks on their faces, so many torches that the smoke would soon turn suffocating.

Maelys stared at the two men in the lead. Alric Gargalen he knew but his entire attention was focused on his companion. Even in this coarse grey cloak, Lord Mikkel Gargalen could not be mistaken for any other: slim and tall, easily as tall as Maelys, his hair shone like molten silver, his eyes were pools of violet. There was nothing deformed about him, nothing indicating that he had ever endured any hardships. Lord Gargalen! Mikkel Sand, he should have been, had it not been for Maron Martell. This blasted Dornishman who had received everything at the end had even managed to make his bastard Alor legal heir to his maternal grandfather while the true kings of the Seven Kingdoms had to fend for themselves beyond the Narrow Sea. And here he was – Mikkel Gargalen who had never done anything in his life to win what he had, so unfairly favoured by the gods in all respects… Maelys had never hated anyone as much as he hated him. He would not hate even the usurper king so much, although he would kill him.

For a long moment, the two men stayed looking at each other. No one around dared to breathe.

"Not here," Mikkel finally said. "Let's go out…"

He might have added something else, too, but if so, Maelys didn't hear him. There was only one word burning in his mind: out. He'd be chased and rejected again because those stupid Dornishmen could not see the advantages he had offered them. He had to go out, to return to his life of battles and soldier tent so Mikkel Gargalen could bed the beautiful Lady Isanne in his magnificent bedchamber.

He made a step forward with his sword in hand. Mikkel Gargalen immediately raised his own blade – and then Maelys jumped back and risked look away from the two brothers in his pursuit of the silent shade that was trying to squeeze past him.

"Not a step further, or she's dead!"

The tip of his sword, pressing slightly against the ivory skin of Aelinor's neck, proved a powerful means of persuasion. A single crimson drop gleamed against her pulse to prove that he wasn't jesting.

"Have you really sunken so low?" Mikkel Gargalen's voice was even and controlled, his eyes never leaving the blade touching his sister's neck. "Let her go. You wanted a fight, I believe? You can have it with me. Or did you mean you wanted to fight a woman?"

"This woman, I already defeated," Maelys spat out and with some dark satisfaction saw that Aelinor shivered. At least now she knew where she stood with him. Even her fear was better than the lack of senses from the first days. "What happened to my men?"

"Captured. Some of them killed. Your defenses left something to be desired, just like ours did."

_He will remedy this in the future_ , Maelys thought, furious at himself. Such a simple thing as bad defenses had doomed his plan at such an early stage. He would have to start anew when he returned to the Stepstones. And he would return, for he had a most treasured bargaining chip.

"We're going to my ship now," he said. "And you aren't going to give a chase."

To make his point clear, he nudged Aelinor with the sharp tip again and then cursed himself because she had turned slightly aside and instead of prodding the skin of her neck, he had broken the silky smoothness of her right cheek.

Mikkel Gargalen nodded, albeit reluctantly.

 


	6. In the Ruins of a Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for following, everyone.

 

 

 

There were those who had believed, for a while, that Tyrosh would be shown more mercy. It was Maelys Blackfyre's place of birth, after all, the city that had given the exiled Blackfyres a refuge and a chance to restore their much depleted power. Those had been good reasons for the citizens to expect the upcoming events with slightly less fear than the other unfortunate cities that now served as kingdoms for this or that of the Band of Nine.

But the Houses that still held some records saved from old Valyria and had members keen on studying them claimed that in no language spoken by pirates had the word _gratitude_ ever existed.

A year had passes since the terrible day the Band and their men had entered the city and children were still crying, haunted by the memory of it. In fact, so were the old and young ones. Ah those men! They had been sacking, killing, raping, and setting fire to everything around. Tethering their horses in the temples! Alequo Adarys did not care what people thought. He wanted to make clear who their new master was. And Maelys Blackfyre was burning for revenge, for he had once found the city gates closed upon returning from his last plundering expedition. Some claimed it had been his eight one. Others claimed fifteenth. Who could say for sure? There was no shortage of cities and villages he had set to fire and demolished as he went through life!

People had hoped that at least, they had seen the last of the Golden Company. Alequo was trouble enough. No such luck, though. Five days ago, Maelys the Monstrous had returned to Tyrosh, taking residence in the rich house of a former tyrant whose great-grandson's body was left to hang on the huge plane-tree near the gates. The next day, servants were brought in which was another word for saying that a slave market had been robbed, so men and women were able to start carrying away the debris that had remained of the house across the street, cook for the commanders in the Golden Company who came to discuss their next plans with Maelys and stayed late into the night, drinking it away. Maelys, though, never stayed till the end.

"We should not be here," Narval said, anxiously, but Ylande, twenty years his junior but quite protective of him since the second day in their old master's house, sighed impatiently, grabbing his hand to make him fall silent. She was listening intently at the silence from the chamber above their heads. Not the faintest whisper of the wind disturbed the peace. He went on to listen, as well.

After a while, she sighed again without letting go. "I was here last night, too," she whispered. "I got scared. No woman can be trusted. She did not breathe a word, for all she looks as if butter would never melt in her mouth. She could have at least screamed to save face. Look, she's mum now, too…"

He clamped a hand over her mouth, terrified that the monster above would hear, and they stole back very cautiously.

When they went out of the main building to go to the slave quarters, the stench of burning assaulted their nostrils and they saw a fiery ball on the horizon. The men from the Golden Company had set something on fire. Or Alequo's people. Or both. When was it going to end? Would it ever?

* * *

 

The room that had once been solar had been turned into a council chamber, kind of. Sitting around the huge oak table, the nine men reached for their goblets of Arbor gold as often as they did for the parchments in front of them. From the vast windows at the right wall, the courtyard could be seen, with small silhouettes darting here and the dead man's head, or rather what had been left of it after three months, rotting on its plane-tree. Mindless of the reek of rotten, the men had opened the windows and set them not to move.

"So, it's true?" the Ebon Prince asked. "He had his grandson and granddaughter wed each other?"

"That's what my fellow captains say," Samarro Saan confirmed. "The wedding was a big deal. There were all kinds of rumours as to whether he'd name his nephew his Hand but it looked like he managed to spite the man off, so he just turned his back on King's Landing and went away."

"Mikkel Gargalen is a fool," Alequo Adarys announced. "He could have easily been the most powerful man in Westeros and stay so for decades, for it's known that his crippled cousin relies on him as he does on few others and Aegon won't live forever. Instead, he threw it all away for no better reason than disagreeing with what Jaehaerys would do with his own two whelps."

"Mikkel Gargalen is anything but," Maelys Blackfyre cut in grimly. _Why should he not turn his back on it all_ , he went on mentally. _It isn't as if he'd be forced to beg his bread by the side of the road._ Once again, Salt Shore danced before his eyes – the rich castle, the opulent bedchamber, the beautiful wife, Mikkel's own unblemished looks. Maelys himself might not have cared about the ultimate power if he had so much power anyway. "And he isn't one who can be overlooked."

"Don't we know it," the Ebon Prince agreed and saluted him with a sardonical toast. "He was the one who chased you away with what, fifty men?"

It hadn't been fifty but anyway, the shame of this defeat was still stuck in Maelys' throat. He didn't say a thing, just glared at his fellow conqueror.

"So, Aegon is getting desperate," Alequo concluded. "He's thrown this lavish wedding to fool people into thinking that all is well in his kingdom despite the wreak his sons wrought. A boy of fifteen and a girl of fourteen." He laughed. "Who's going to bet that they'll end up crushed under the burden of all hopes Aegon and the rest set on them?"

"It doesn't matter now," Maelys said and waved a serving boy to refill his goblet. "What matters is that he's gathering an army to go against us."

Dagos the Good shrugged and his grey mane fluttered. Strangely vain for a pirate, he had been making it into ridiculous braided curls even when Maelys first met him, fifteen years ago. "Let them come, I say."

"No," Samarro Saan protested. "We must meet them at the Stepstones. And we have an advantage here."

The rest of them looked at him with narrowed eyes.

He pointed at the window opposite to theirs, in the main building. Aelinor Gargalen stood there, leaning on her elbow and staring right at them. Her long braids hung down the windowsill like twirling snakes. From this far, it looked like she had been washed and groomed.

The men stared at her, squinting, trying to see her up close. A Dornish lady with Targaryen blood was something they were quite curious about, especially when there were still those in Tyrosh who spoke of her mother's sparkling beauty. Maelys smirked a little. They might strain all they liked but they'd never seen the amethyst depth of her eyes, the waxen whiteness of her skin, the small cracks in her lips, for she was constantly thirsty. They'd never feel the softness of her hair between their fingers, the black bruises under her eyes. Of course, he knew why she looked so gaunt but that was the way women often looked after a sleepless night full of pleasure. With other men, of course. He had never had a willing bedmate, even if he paid them. Not that Aelinor was willing but he was surprised by his desire to keep her. At least she didn't squirm at the sight of him _. I am no fool_ , he thought. _I know why she's doing this and what she thinks of me. But she's of a strong sort, that alone proves it. With time, she'll get used to me, truly. One day, she won't look like a dead woman walking._

"Do you think so?" he asked. "While her father was the Hand, it was true, for sure. But now?"

The pirate waved a dismissive hand. "She's still Aegon's beloved niece. And her own brothers won't risk her life if they think they can negotiate instead."

He grinned at Maelys. "I don't think it's fair that you keep the woman all for yourself. I can tell she's quite the beauty… and you wouldn't have had her without us. It's only fair that you share."

Maelys took his time to answer, staring at eager face after eager face. The dead man's skull outside swayed against the breeze, sending another wave of nauseating reek towards them.

Why was he so hesitant? Logically, giving Aelinor up should not have been a problem. Friendly sharing was time-honoured custom. They had always shared, unless the woman in question was a constant mistress to one of them. Aelinor Gargalen was soiled goods. And he could never make her his Queen even if she wasn't. Not after all the men accompanying him had drunk in the sight of her naked beauty as he took his pleasure and punishment.

On the other hand, none of these men lived now…

No, he was not willing to share. Not her. The price was too high. But if they caught a whiff of his weakness, they'd pounce on him. "I'll keep her for now," he said, trying to sound nonchalant and casually menacing in equal measure.

By the sight of their smirks, he could say that they didn't quite believe his nonchalance but none of them objected. For now, that would have to suffice.

They kept discussing the forecoming war and whether they should stay here, or meet Aegon's army at the Stepstones; annoyed, Maelys found more than once that his thoughts drifted to something entirely insignificantly: what fruits he should buy for his household because Aelinor was constantly plagued by weariness and inability to keep her food in. He wouldn't have her die of starvation here, in his home.

No matter whether he'd wed her or not.

 


	7. Seat of Kings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for all your reviews.

The coronation took place in the sept of Bloodstone, on the very same place Prince Daemon Targaryen had once been proclaimed King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea. And for all the love maesters had for beautifying history, Daemon's coronation had most likely been attended by ragtags, not so different from those who now acclaimed the new King.

_Father and Carral always swore that Corlys Velaryon must have been worse than any of the pirates they had dealt with_ , Aelinor thought, staring at the disgusting farce in front of her. The Sea Snake was also one of both Alor and Carral's Gargalen favourite historical figures, as well, and she never understood how they could feel both things. Arianne claimed that she understood but then, Arianne was hardly a conventional woman. Aelinor was sure of one thing: if Corlys Velaryon had been anything like the boy now placing the crown on Maelys' main head, he had been someone she would not have cared to know. Padrec Longsword, she had heard that they called him, and the handmaidens Maelys had given her whispered in fear about his battle prowess and cruelty. She had seen what he had done to a poor servant who had bumped into him. And whenever he gave her one of his long lusty looks, her gorge rose.

They brought the crown over – a golden band, no doubt a copy of Aegon the Conqueror's crown, in their minds. Aelinor who had seen the real thing, curled her lip. This band here was too wide, the rubies too small. She wondered from which poor woman's neck they had been torn….. or worse, lifted from the decapitated corpse.

She had prayed for a dark day, bad weather, anything but the bright sun that now lit this monstrosity. She looked up, hoping for a solar eclipse, at least, but there was none. She stared in front of her, at the white buildings turned grey with time but still bearing some of the magnificence of the time when this picturesque island had been the capitol of a Targaryen king.

She could feel the eyes on her, the pirates wondering what she would do. She supposed she was expected to have a fit or look up at Maelys like an obedient puppy. But she did neither. Immaculately dressed, carefully maintaining a distant and aloof expression, she memorized everything. She wanted to save it for the time this new king would fall. When she grew old, she would tell her nieces and nephews about the monster who thought himself a king and lost it all – his kingdom and his life.

The stench of unwashed bodies made her gag. Aelinor refused to think of all the things that had started making her gag. Tonight, she would place a warm brick against her belly and that would bring her monthly flux on. It always did.

Someone pushed her from behind and she found herself on her knees, her head pressed down, thus saluting the man who was just accepting the acclamations of King Maelys of House Blackfyre.

* * *

The great hall was very well preserved, up to the oak tables that could fit over two hundred guests. The vanity of the pirates had prompted them to keep everything they could that was rumoured to have been built by Daemon Targaryen. A real king!

The wine was in abundance and the last raid in the Reach shores had provided them with more than enough food and slaves. The conversations were getting louder, the brawls more vigorous and the servants kept running here and there with new plates. The new king slowly rose.

"Today was a bright day for the success of our entertainment," he said. He was not a man of empty words so he went straight to the core. "No doubt Aegon will hear of it soon and then we'll have the chance to finally right the wrong he and his line did me. But until then, let's celebrate the joyous occasion."

He looked at the young man at his right. During the last year, Padrec had managed to distinguish himself with his commander abilities. He was a fine asset… and years away from the day he'd be able to threaten Maelys. But it would be useful to make Dagos the Good see that _he_ had a rival here. The old pirate had become quite insufferable and quick to remind everyone that the Stepstones were _his_ realm.

"So," Maelys said, looking at Padrec. "I make it a policy to reward good service – and yours has been excellent. You'll go far. What do you want to receive from me, Padrec Longsword? Name it, and it'll be yours."

He was quite taken aback when the answer came immediately – and its content truly stunned him speechless.

"Give me the Dornish captive, Your Grace."

Maelys' hand went to his sword before he forced his fingers apart. The boy stared at him without an ounce of fear, although he could not have missed Maelys' gesture. Abrupt silence descended upon the hall and since it was not built on the earth but dug in it, suddenly everyone felt as if they were sitting in a grave. The torches crackled and hissed.

"Take her," Maelys finally said, his voice even. "Once the feast is over, you can take her."

"That might erase her haughtiness," someone said and Maelys barely restrained from lunging at the tables, sword in hand.

* * *

Aelinor had already gone to sleep. One of the handmaidens was sorting through her gowns. Maelys waved her off and she all but trotted for the door.

There was no moon tonight but the shutters were opened anyway. In the torchlight, Maelys stared at the woman in the bed, at her pale face and silky hair. She slept in fine linen sheets. On the shelves, there were a dozen of books. Her dressing table was covered with perfumes and ointments. So many things that he had given her to please her, make her comfortable.

Padrec's eyes shone, tearing the covering apart, as if he could see the graceful body beneath. Maelys reached to shake her but Aelinor woke up on her own, opening eyes so wide with fear that he had to wonder whether she had felt Padrec's lust and his anger in her sleep.

"Dress up," Maelys said. "You're leaving."

"Where are we…" Aelinor started and her face blanched even more. Her eyes moved between Maelys and Padrec. She opened her mouth to say something but her voice had left her.

Padrec held out a hand; all of a sudden, Aelinor jumped up and squatted in the farthest corner of the bed. Maelys leaned over her but she reached for his face in blind panic and left bloody lines along his cheek.

"This is getting ridiculous," the boy said impatiently and grabbed Aelinor by the chin; she jerked her head backward, then forward and bit at him. "Come here…"

His eyes went wide. Scarlet foam bubbled on his lips. For a moment, there was an utter confusion writ on his face before he fell on the bed, his head pressing Aelinor's left foot, so she lost her balance and fell flat on her face on the mattress, too.

Maelys drew his blade back and placed it on the carpet that started soaking the blood immediately. He seemed stunned, confused as to what had just happened. But then he pushed the body from the bed with a single mighty shove and pushed Aelinor to lie down with her legs wide apart. In a daze of stupor, she let him arrange her limbs to his taste and then take her right on the spot that was painted bright red with Padrec's blood.

* * *

From this day on, no one made any comment about her. Very few dared to even look at her, let alone suggest that Maelys share her. Everyone treated her as their queen, both in the palace and outside, in the island. Even when her condition became obvious, no one suggested that the child might be anyone else's but Maelys'. But anyway, why would they? Everyone knew that Maelys had taken her at swordpoint from a wedding that had not ended with a first night. If someone thought that she might have been too eager to have a wedding night before the wedding, they certainly didn't voice it. Maelys had proved that he could be extremely proprietorial when this woman was concerned.

Of course, that meant that she was safe on Bloodstone – safer than any other woman. No man in their right mind would harm Maelys Blackfyre's bedmate. Soon, Aelinor made a habit out of climbing a solitary rock dropping sharply into the sea where the children of the forests had shattered the Arm of Dorne. She sat on a big boulder staring into the smooth cerulean sea, desperately wishing for hope, for help, as the day and the pirates went on their business and her child quickened in her womb, a child of so much violence or maybe Eltor's child. She had no way to know.

Did Maelys suspect that she didn't know? That there was a chance he wasn't this child's father? Aelinor desperately searched through her mind for something to show her what he knew. _Suck the blood as you sucked Eltor_ , he had said in the day she still dreamed of both sleeping and awake. Had he come to know, somehow, that they had consummated their union before the wedding? Or were those just words? Aelinor held no illusions what would happen if he became convinced that the babe wasn't his. He wanted her but not with another man's child. He would probably let her give birth but then… Babes were such fragile creatures. Her child could suffocate in sleep. A single drop on the head could leave it witless. Maelys could break a tiny neck without breaking a sweat. Aelinor was not sure that she wanted this child at all – but she feared about it.

The sea was still blue and smooth. No help from anywhere.

The voice came a week after she first climbed here. "Aelinor."

She turned around, stunned. Surely she couldn't be hearing…?

The slender silhouette did not approach. Instead, he beckoned her to come near and looking around, Aelinor understood his reasoning. She was out in the open while he stood in the shelter of a boulder shielding him from view from the island.

"Lewyn," she whispered as she stopped before him. Her heart beat in her throat now.

The young Kingsguard was staring at her intently, unsmiling. He was a handsome man who bore strong resemblance to his sister Arianne's features and colouring, although not her height. As a little girl, Aelinor had adored the older boy, dreamed of marrying him even…

"Are you well?" he asked, taking her hands in his warm palms. His ragged clothes told her that he had not come to the Stepstones in his capacity of her uncle's Kingsguard… or a Prince of Dorne.

"Yes," she said and blushed, feeling his eyes on her belly. "And no, I don't know whose it is," she said, defiantly. "I suppose Arianne told you about me and Eltor…"

"Aelinor," he said, holding her hands more tightly. "I am not here to judge you. I just wanted you to know that the end is near. We're gathering an army… You won't stay here for long."

"Tell me," she interrupted, her eyes suddenly shining like the sun dancing on the waves before her.

They didn't have the time for that but Lewyn told her anyway, keeping it as short as possible. She was too starved for news and hope, it would be cruel of him to keep them off her for whatever reason.

Then, he hesitated, coming to the true reason of his decision to reveal himself to her. Did he have the right to ask of her what he was going to ask? It would mean to place herself in danger… But wasn't she living in danger already, now more than ever with this child on the way? Wouldn't she _want_ to help? And still… wouldn't that mean that he was using her, preying on her desire to escape?

He decided to be reasonable and honest. He had to let her make up her own mind. Nothing else would be fair.

"Aelinor," he said. "I've been trying to find a way to get access to the palace in days and I came up with nothing. The first battle, the one that might turn out to be decisive, will take place here, at the Stepstones."

"Here?" Aelinor asked, looking at him.

"Yes, here," Lewyn replied. "That's their turf and we have to strike them here. Should we evict them, they'll be hard-pressed to reach Essos. They won't have the forces to launch an attack against Dorne or the Reach to feed and rearm themselves. These islands are the very thing that keeps them connected to their Essosi comrades, just like the Arm of Dorne once connected Westeros and Essos. And they know it. They'll turn the Stepstones into fortresses and they'll fight here to the bitter end and destruction."

"Destruction," Aelinor repeated hollowly. "Yes. That's what they do best."

She didn't care whether they'd defend the Stepstones to their own destruction… but she cared very much who else they would destroy in the process!

"That's quite right." Lewyn paused. "I came here with a specific purpose," he said. "To lay my hands on their defense plan. I know for sure that there are three copies of it, made five moons ago. One of them is in Tyrosh. Another one is here."

"With Maelys," Aelinor finished for him, looking straight ahead.

"With him," Lewyn confirmed. "And something else: he keeps it in his private chambers, not the study where many people go."

"In his chambers," Aelinor repeated thoughfully.

"Do you have any idea where he might be keeping it?"

Aelinor was silent, looking at the sea. The waves crashed noisily, bathing the shore in whitespun foam.

"In the cabinet above the hearth," she finally said, having gone through Maelys' chambers in her mind. "It can't be anywhere else…"

"Is it iron?" Lewyn asked.

"Iron and hidden in the wall," Aelinor said, still staring at the horizon. "But there is a similar cabinet in my own bedchamber. An identical one, in fact. And there is an old key to my cabinet, I found it by chance when I was looking for a lost hairbrush. Maybe we can open his cabinet with this key as well."

"Aelinor," Lewyn said. "Can you give me this key?"

"I think so," she replied. It was only now that she looked at him and he saw how pale she was.

"Then when can you give me this key?" he asked and once again reached for her hand.

She was still staring at him but looking at something else, something within herself.

"Lewyn," she spoke calmly. "You're in great enough danger just by being here. It'll only become greater if you try to enter Maelys' chambers." She shook her head. "No. You can't. These documents you want, I'll give them to you…"

"No," he interrupted determinedly. "You shouldn't. You'll give me the key and I am grateful. But the rest of it is none of your business."

"It became my business from the moment this monster showed up at my wedding," the young woman said bitterly. "If there is a war, by the Seven I am fighting too. I am Alor Gargalen's daughter, a lady of Dorne. I won't sit by and watch you being killed out of some misguided desire to protect me."

"Aelinor…"

She drew back. "Why won't you understand? If you want to stay alive and bring these documents to our people, I have to be the one to do it. Every other attempt will fail. And I have to do it now. Maelys is on the Grey Gallows. He'll be back tonight – and his Kingsguard will be with him. There will be always a servant or three in his chambers."

She spoke calmly, as collected as she was by nature. Lewyn hesitated.

"Stay here," Aelinor said quickly. "Then go to the ruins of the old sept, at the portal, and wait for me. I'll bring it to you there…"

She turned around and started walking away before he could come up with new reasons why she shouldn't do this.

By the time she was back in the palace, it was dusky and cold already. She opened the box where she kept her jewels and reached for the bottom. The key was there, small and tinted green with time. She threw the gems back and drew a deep breath. The child inside seemed to pick up on her fear, for it started getting more restless.

Without hiding, Aelinor left her chambers and headed for Maelys'. If she acted arrogant enough, no one would ever think of questioning her. Still, she was relieved that she didn't encounter anybody. At this time of day, servants had duties elsewhere.

Maelys had left only four days ago but his bedchamber smelled of stall air and rotting beams already. Aelinor listened intently. No sound anywhere. Without lighting a candle, she went to the hearth, lifted a small tapestry and started fingering the wall behind. A small invisible hole showed her where the lock was. She prayed to the Warrior and pressed the key in. It turned almost immediately.

It was now entirely dark. Aelinor fingered the cabinet and felt a thick piece of parchment. Fingered the bottom again. Nothing.

Panicked all of a sudden, she locked the cabinet, let the tapestry fall back and tucked the parchment in the pocket of her gown. Her heart raced and she found herself forced to wait for a while before she could get her feet to move.

In her own bedchamber, she unfolded the parchment, only to face a labyrinth of black and blue lines that held no meaning to her. She put in back in her gown and reached for a coat. The wind had started howling louder, masking the sound of her steps.

Lewyn waited for her, shifting his weight from foot to foot, fingering his blade and imagining everything that could happen to her now. A few times he started heading for Daemon Targaryen's palace but reason won out: such a thing would bring no good, Aelinor might go on another route and he might miss her, so he came back every single time.

Not knowing how long he had spent in the ruins but when he saw her dark shadow in the distance, realized that it had been a hundred years.

"Here," Aelinor said breathlessly. "I think that's it. There was nothing else there…"

"Aelinor," Lewyn said, raised her small cold hand to his lips and kissed it.

"Now go," she urged. "We'll see each other again when it's over."

"When it's over," he echoed.

This time, he was the first to leave. Aelinor could feel his desire to turn around and look at her and felt grateful when he disappeared into the island without doing so.

 


	8. The Most Wonderful Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to everyone who reviewed, you're a great help in keeping me willing to update faster.

At the end of the eight month of the year, the weather turned suddenly cold. The wind howled, cold and biting, and made the narrow alleys even more deserted and empty.

Aelinor slept poorly. She woke up all of a sudden, startled by a noise that clearly came not from the outside but from the inside, the depth of her own desolate heart. She sat up in bed staring out into the night, the cold glint of the stars. They were the same stars she had watched from her bed in Salt Shore, in King's Landing, in her beloved Water Gardens yet now they looked different, hostile, foreboding. She listened for a sound, long and concernedly. But she only heard the faint breathing of the man lying next to her. Pain shot through her body, starting between her legs – the very place he had forced himself in once again this night, causing pain to both her and her babe that now stirred restlessly. If only she could tell him that she needed to sleep alone, that his attentions were not good for her body right now! He should have known it on his own but in a way, Aelinor was glad that he didn't. His favour was the only thing standing between her and everyone else, both pirates and captives from the Seven Kingdoms alike. No one would forgive her for living in the greatest comfort Maelys could provide her, being waited on and coddled to no end while the rest of them suffered cruelties that she had never imagined. A few times, she had intervened with Maelys on behalf of this or that man and he had indulged her. But that was something only she and he knew. And she would not boast about it anyway. Should she fall from Maelys' grace, the other captives would tear her apart before his fellow vagabonds could get to her. What an irony – she hated Maelys wholeheartedly, yet she had to plead with the Seven to spare his life because that meant life for her, too. She deliberately refused to think about the little being moving in her womb already. It could be Maelys'. She felt no joy in feeling its kicks. And she did not enjoy the new looks she was acquiring. Soon, she'd start looking like a pig! She wondered how Maelys could bear to look at her naked.

The entire palace was lost in dark, uninterrupted silence. This silence and the thought of her family were the next thing to rush to Aelinor's mind – her grief for her father and Eltor, her fear for her brothers. She wondered what her mother was doing, having lost both her husband to death and her daughter to an unknown fate. She could see Daella's eyes. Right before Aelinor left King's Landing, they had become peculiar. Was she suffering grief that time was not healing but making worse? Was she losing heart? Did she believe that the war that had marked her entire life, the neverending war with the Blackfyre pretenders will take everyone she held dear? Aelinor felt cold, lay back down, tugged the cover over her shoulders and closed her eyes, staying as far from Maelys as possible. That was the time when the thought of Eltor came to her – not the bloodied head thrown at her feet but the living Eltor, the one she had planned to spend her life with. He was talking to her, smiling the smile that kept her heart captive. And she went to sleep, caressed by sudden warmth.

In the morning, she always woke up early. Somehow, she had gotten used to feeling when Maelys left – usually well before sunrise – and only then did she fall into a brief deep slumber that restored her only partially but did so anyway. Then, she woke up and left her fast unbroken since at this time, the faintest smell of food sent her running to the basin. And her day began, marked by the thunder of the battle that had been raging for a full week – the armies of the Seven Kingdoms were trying to reach the Stepstones and the men of the Ninepenny Kings were trying to stop them.

* * *

"Today," Lord Hayford, the Master of Ships, announced. "It has to happen today."

The men gathered in the captain's cabin of _The Rose of the Crown_ looked at each other and nodded grimly.

"It should have happened five days ago," Lord Luthor Tyrell said. "We've been losing time. If we have those plans, we should have used them to our advantage."

The emphasis he put on _if_ was quite prominent. Lewyn Martell bristled. "Do you doubt me, my lord?" he demanded.

The broad-shouldered man of the Reach made a conciliatory gesture.

"Indeed not!" he denied. "But what is it that I am hearing? Is it true that you've got these plans from Maelys Blackfyre's whore?"

Carral Gargalen shot to his feet. Unlike most of the men present, he was a mariner who was predicted a great career in the Dornish fleet, so he had no trouble taking the distance separating him from Lord Tyrell in two confident strides. The difference between the two men were obvious – Carral felt completely at ease in the sea while the last few weeks had lent the Lord of Highgarden a sickly green complexion and unstable gait. But he was a match for Carral's fury, convinced that the person who had given them the plans for the defense of the Stepstones was not to be trusted.

"Say that again," Carral spat, "and you'll find your death before the Blackfyre monster can give it to you!"

Lord Hayford stepped between them immediately. "Please. Now, it isn't the time."

"It's always the time to make filthy gossipers shut their foul traps," Carral spat, his hand to his sword already.

Mikkel placed a hand on his brother's arm, silently, and shook his head.; grudgingly, Carral obeyed. Alric who had followed the whole exchange with a hand on his own sword, grinded his teeth and didn't say a thing.

Despite the cold outside, the cabin was unbearably hot with the presence of so many people. They didn't dare open the hatch out of fear that they'd be overheard. They knew, though, where the rest of the men of the overcrowded ship were, as well as the location of the other ships. It was all a part of a carefully orchestrated plan. The Master of Ships was now dismayed to hear that there were those who doubted it… for young Gerold Hightower was not slow in raising a voice in support of his liege lord.

"Forgive me, I don't mean any offense but… can we be sure of Lady Aelinor's loyalties? She's with Maelys Blackfyre now."

This time, even Mikkel couldn't hold the anger out of his expression. Only a year ago, Gerold Hightower had been one of Aelinor's most fervent suitors. He had been praising her to no end then. Now, she was suddenly not to be trusted because she was with Maelys Blackfyre. As if she wanted to be there!

He knew that very few people outside of Dorne would believe that she wasn't, though… He had heard the sickening story firsthand but he was well aware of the rumours circulating all over already.

"I am sure," Lewyn said. "I swear it, I'll vouch with my life. I'll be answerable for all the lady will do. She isn't a traitor. And she's in danger already. If they find out that we know their plans, she'll be pointed at immediately. She's the only one who has access to Maelys' private chambers."

"Or so she says," Tyrell murmured but quite half-heartedly. Lewyn and the Gargalen brothers left the matter to rest. They were worried enough as it was. Maelys and his men weren't the only danger to Aelinor – Lewyn had been able to ascertain that the slaves were no less of a threat. They ought to be pleased that they had been able to win this delay to strengthen the pretense that they were unaware of Maelys' plans.

"That might be so," Alric said coldly. "Yet we will act on _our_ conviction, my lord. And it is that my sister needs to be led away from this lair before the battle starts."

There was murmur of disgruntlement at this that made Alric curse in his head. _You bastards_ , he thought. _You've already written her off._ Only a few moons ago, they would have been tripping over their feet to offer plans to ensure Aelinor's safety. Most of them had tried to get her either as a bride or their heirs' bride. Now, she was soiled, dishonoured, not worth a thought.

"Can we take the risk, though?" Barristan Selmy asked. "That might point them to the fact that we're planning something. The King was explicit. Getting rid of Maelys Blackfyre should be our first priority. As far as I've heard, Lady Aelinor is in no danger with him…"

Despite his attempts to sound as evenly as possible, it was clear what he was trying not to say. Again, Carral started to say something before someone else beat him to it.

"I am the one who represents the King and not you," Aemon Targaryen said curtly. "And I know my father is greatly worried about his niece. He made it quite clear to me that we should do anything to keep her safe. That's why we'll take the small risk of making them aware that something is going on. We'll break through their defense line an hour before sunset, as we've already decided. At this moment, when all their forces have left the palace, Aelinor should be led to the coastal caves and hidden there. We are not leaving her to anyone's mercy, be it Maelys, his people, or the rest of the people on the island."

Everything was said in polite, restrained voice but the iron tones of Aemon's father, their king, could be felt clearly. Lord Tyrell shrugged. He looked like he wanted to say something but he couldn't.

"My lords," another voice said as a few pairs of hands started to light the torches in their sconces, for it was now past twilight. "I think I should go with the man who will collect Lady Aelinor."

Lord Hayford frowned in surprise and concentration, trying to remember where he had seen this boy. Why had he been brought along at all? It was a war council, not a yard practice! Seeing the dismay on Prince Aemon's face, he suddenly remembered. "You are…"

"My squire," Carral Gargalen said quickly.

Seeing that Aemon Targaryen kept his silence, Lord Hayford reluctantly decided to let it be. He still disliked the idea but the boy would be in no immediate danger. He lacked the Targaryen hair and his eyes looked quite black. Only a careful examination would reveal their deep indigo shade. Prince Duncan and Lady Jenny were so careful not to show the child around that very few people remembered that there _was_ a child at all. Why should they? He would never wear the crown. Lord Hayford could not even remember his name. Carral? No, Ciar.

"Why would you think so?" Carral asked.

"Because no one in the palace will look at a boy twice. A man might attract some notice. Sure, if the palace is guarded, the men should take care of this. But I think I should enter on my own."

Carral nodded curtly; when Lord Hayford saw that the Prince had no objections, he agreed and named the two men who would accompany the boy. The rest of the meeting went on smoothly, with everyone in agreement that they should leave their own center weaker and instead rely on the Golden Company's intention to fight by boarding. And then, they would make the break-through which would allow them to load a good part of their army on the beach and take care of those left ashore.

When the third change of torched burned away, everyone went to take a precious few hours of rest.

* * *

"The bloody whoresons seem to know just where to strike. I'd say that they know our fucking plan in all details!"

Samarro Saan's voice was hoarse with the lack of sleep as he stood at the window, impatiently waiting for his horse to be brought in the courtyard. Those fools in the ship seemed to have been caught asleep, something that he would not tolerate. He would find out who had been responsible for this deplorable lack of discipline and hang him upon the spot. After they fought the Westerosi men off, of course. They seemed to know just how lacking the Ninepenny King's ships were where swift reloading was concerned – their heavy guns were crowded too close together and a great deal of their ammunition was stowed between decks. How could the Westerosi bastards know it? They had not even captured a single ship of theirs!

It didn't matter, though. They knew where the defense was weak and they knew just how close they should get to injure the enemy's hulls. Worse, their guns were more long-ranged and maneuverable, sending rain of fire and wildfire that lit the night, turning it into a bright day; with a muffled curse, Samarro Saan saw the black dragon of _King Daemon_ being swept out from the mast.

Maelys turned silently, furious and disbelieving. But that was neither his first disappointment nor first meeting with defeat. He would not surrender without a fight but he did not intend to die if he could avoid it. If he did, the Falseborn's line would win and everything would have been in vain – everything he and his ancestors had fought for, believed in. If the battle today took a turn for the worse, he'd return to Essos, replenish his forces and start again.

Despite his vows not to do it, the first thing he did when he entered his study was go to the window. He spat an obscene oath when he saw that the four siege machines he had intended to position at the Corpse Hill were being wrapped in flames sent from the deck of the _Silver Lady_. This Carral Gargalen truly sprang up out of nowhere. Maelys intended to deal with him as harshly as he would do with Aegon's own sons, Aelinor's brother or not.

He started drawing his drawers out and throwing their contents on the floor, taking out only the objects he did not want to fall into the enemy's hands. He would have them stored on the unmarked ship he kept for such an eventuality, the one that no one would think to stop on its way to Essos. Then, he checked the cupboards and looked through the window again. This time, there was no fire and in the darkness outside and the torch inside he saw only his own grotesque silhouette, gaunt and unshaven, the second head as disgusting at ever. All of a sudden, that scared him. He turned away.

 _I am ready for battle_ , he thought. _Is there something else I need to send somewhere safe?_

He ran a hand over his forehead, thinking. And then he remembered the second copy of the defense plan. He went to his bedchamber, left the torch in a sconce, moved the tapestry and reached in his pocket for the big mulitedged key. The lock clicked.

Inside, there was nothing. He startled, brought the torch near, almost pushed it into the opening. Nothing.

Maelys stood there frozen with cold, his mind racing.

Had it been this plan that had enabled Aegon's men to gain knowledge of their defense? He looked up with great effort, the air in his lungs suddenly not enough. On the ceiling, his shadow shivered, huge and terrifying. His mind started working again, feverishly. He was thinking of everything that might be suspicious – his commanders, his men, his Kingsguard. He looked at the walls, as if they could give him the answer. Then, he slowly leaned against the cold hearth. His strength was leaving him swiftly. He sat on the chair. Opened his tunic at the throat. Stared at the torch.

From the outside, screams and gunfire came once again.

All of a sudden, his eyes became sharp. He rose and stared at the hidden cabinet, suddenly realizing the only place there could be an identical one.

"Aaah," he groaned painfully. "What a fool I was!"

He bit his lip and headed for Aelinor's chamber, the Kingsguard trailing him stunned but knowing better than ask.

In the last two nights, he had not visited her. But he immediately saw that she had not slept last night either. She had not even gone to bed – it was undisturbed. She was sitting at her dressing table with her hairbrush in her hand, near her head. Then, she saw Maelys in her looking-glass, in the doorframe.

She brought her hands down, rose and slowly turned back, her face caught in terrified anticipation that swept the glow of happiness in her eyes. She felt some coldness spreading through her chest, down to the child in her womb. But she did not lose her composure.

Daella Targaryen's daughter and Maelys Blackfyre stood and stared at each other silently, without moving. A silence descended upon them, with something like challenge trembling in the air.

Maelys followed every movement of hers, the expression of her face, the look she gave him. In the worry in her eyes he saw the answer of his terrible suspicion.

He made a step towards her and then another one.

"Were you the one who took the plans from the cabinet in my chamber?"

His voice sounded hoarse, completely changed, not his own.

Aelinor startled ever so slightly. She had never thought of the answer she could give to such a question. What could she say? What would Eltor have done? Her mother? Her brothers? She couldn't think of anything. Then, she realized that lying would be of no use. She would not humiliate herself with a lie before this monster. Her eyes turned colder. Her voice was soft, firm and very clear, "Yes. It was I who took your plans…"

To Maelys, her words were like one of the gunshot destroying his fleet right now. In his long life of wars, he had never heard such a reply. This would be the last place or time he would have expected it. He felt crushed, brought to the edge of any abasement a man could suffer. And this feeling started tightening its hold over him, dimming his mind and stirring the instinct of destroying, avenging.

He reached for his dagger and took it out. Aelinor stood before him, a little pale and very calm. In the faint torchlight, his deformity was not visible. It left only his fair hair, the purple eyes. _He looks like Eltor_ , she thought, grasped by a feeling resembling warmth. All of a sudden, she could feel her cold limbs again.

Maelys kept staring at her. Her eyes were so deep and calm. This calmness was the last strike, more than he could bear, the epitome of her derision. There was a slight rosy shade on her cheeks. His hand shivered. Now, the worst and shameful thing would happen. He would lower the dagger.

Then, all of a sudden, he felt the call for blood, for revenge, strong, irresistible. Realizing that he had never done anything more wonderful in his life, he swiped.

Aelinor slowly swayed, as if she was trying to walk, tilted over, and fell on her back. In her lower belly, a scarlet flower blossomed out.


	9. Grey and Scarlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to everyone who followed Aelinor's journey this far. You're greater help than you know.

Maelys left the bedchamber with numb legs and unseeing eyes, staring into the dawn making its first faint attempts to break the darkbess. _Dawn_ , he thought, remembering a sword pale as milk and the man who had wielded it. Aelinor Gargalen had avenged him. What a fool Maelys had been, believing that he could ever make her accept him. Instead, she had betrayed and rejected him just like everyone else had.

The Kingsguard behind him was saying something but Maelys could not hear him over the rumble in his head. He went out of the building and without knowing why, turned back and looked up. There were lights behind every window, except for hers.

Maelys ran a hand over his forehead, turned back and headed for the courtyard where his men waited. He headed for his stallion and with his usual discipline pushed back the thought of everything that had happened. He had a battle to fight and going back to Essos or not, he was not going down without a fight.

* * *

"Quick!" the young knight hissed and the boy nodded that he had understood. His eyes tore away from the monstrous man who was now riding away in the head of his ranks and looked around. Then, he entered the palace.

He had no idea where Aelinor resided in – Lewyn had been unable to get access to the grounds. But he had spent much time in the Old Palace and the Water Gardens and from time to time, he even lived in the Red Keep and Summerhall. His instinct led him away from the decrepit parts that had probably not seen repairs since King Daemon's day.

If Maelys Blackfyre did, indeed, treat Aelinor as his queen, it made sense to look for her in the most luxurious chambers. After opening a few doors that revealed empty chambers, some of them stripped of furniture, Ciar finally had luck – he saw a room that was clearly a lady's solar. He opened the next door and yelped at seeing Aelinor lying under the window, a red pool of blood gathering steadily beneath her.

Meanwhile, Ser Brynden Tully hid near the palace gates, counted the moments, and vowed that he'd give the boy a good warming the moment he deigned to appear. But time passed, in the distance, arrows started hissing, swords sang their lethal song, and he finally realized that the young squire would not come at all.

Cursing, he started walking. It was now his turn to enter the bloody palace and find the damned woman and the silly boy that were keeping him from participating in this great battle.

* * *

Barristan Selmy was fighting the most desperate battle in his young life, with an opponent who made him feel uneasy not only by the virtue of his considerable mastery of sword. It felt so weird to fight against a man in the white of the Kingsguard. Prince Lewyn Martell had warned them about those but now, face to face with one of those, Barristan found out that he had not been prepared. _They might not have gotten the crown right,_ he thought, _but their Kingsguard white is flawless_.

Damn it, the man was good. He was the first one of the many enemies Barristan had met in this bloodied morning, ever since the beginning of the attack. At least, he was the first one whose cuts the young knight could actually feel. He was grateful for the years of training under the worst conditions possible, or else he might have been unable to ignore the blood pooling inside his heavy iron gauntlet. A fast deceitful strike made his opponent raise his shield and then Barristan who had noticed that at these defensive movements the man opened his left side just a touch wider than he should, slid his blade in the unprotected part between breastplate and the rerebrace. Such was the power of the strike that the knight of the false king's Kingsguard howled as his arm flew away. A quick swipe for the head, and Barristan left the man writhing under the hooves of so many horses that the animals could not avoid trampling him if they tried. The young knight looked around, stunned to realize just how much time this last combat had taken. In the surge of strikes and defense, he had lost track of time.

The grey sun had finally come, lighting a field of black and scarlet. Dead and dying. Screaming and gagging noisily in their own blood. Barristan's own blood roared in his ears in the rush of rage and excitement but the sight of the destruction around him quickly congealed it to icy resolve. Not far away, only a hundred steps away, stood the reason for it all, huge and stocky, and… just as monstrous as they said. Even from this distance, Barristan could make the two heads out.

A few steps on his right, Prince Aemon was fighting someone a head taller than him and twice as broad. Far in the left, Lord Gargalen motioned at a heavily armed party to circle a group of pirates and close on them from all sides before riding to meet a new opponent.

A hiss of sword took Barristan out of his examination of the situation. On his left, a man fell down, the morningstar raised to smash Barristan's head in still raised in his hand. Alric Gargalen shouted something as he was pulling his blade free. Barristan did not make all the words out but the general gist was clear – "Keep your bloody head low and look around instead of staring!" A sound advice, that was.

The mere hundred steps that separated him from the Blackfyre monster turned to be the hardest terrain he had ever negotiated and in his many years, he'd never negotiate the like. Sellswords, members of the travesty that was Maelys' Kingsguard, pirates, his own horse slipping in the blood – everything conspired to keep him away from the pretender. The sun was already close to its zenith when Barristan finally found himself face to face with Maelys' main… face. His eyes immediately went to the blade flashing in those huge fists. Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror.

Maelys rewarded his curiosity with a strike on his skull that would have made Barristan's head fly away, had it not been contained within his helmet. He felt the taste of blood from the tongue he had bitten severely. Tears sprang to his eyes but that only helped him clear his mind and weigh his chances coolly, objectively. He was no match for Maelys in sheer strength and with Blackfyre in his hands, Maelys could break his own blade as a twig. But the very strength and reach the pretender possessed could prove his downfall. Barristan was young and agile; should he manage to come close enough, Maelys and his huge battlehorse could not use their advantage in weight fully and in close range, the Blackfyre pretender could not land a strike that would utilize Blackfyre's capacity for breaking ordinary weapons.

Barristan gritted his teeth and spurred his horse closer, careful not to look at Maelys' second head. Of all the things he had seen, borne and done this day, the sight of this deformity might prove the one to make him shriek. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he raised his sword, faking a blow. Maelys swiped with Blackfyre and Barristan let the blade crush in his shoulder, breaking his armour. Small pieces of it pierced his skin but without paying any mind to the pain, he slid beneath Maelys' outstretched arm, in closer range than the huge man could move in.

An enormous fist crashed in his armet; nauseated, Barristan felt how his nose broke. Blinded with pain, moved by the instincrs crammed into him alone, he grabbed the fist and tried to push Maelys from the saddle. With his left hand, Maelys started hitting him again and each strike of the gauntlet brought a broken rib, another piece of armour cutting into the skin, inability to breathe. The young knight managed to shake his own gauntlet off to get a more stable hold of his blade. As he groped around for it, his fingers touched something that could only be the pretender's second head. This time, he almost vomited with disgust – indeed, he had to force the vomit back to his throat before it spilled.

With a last bout of desperate strength, he pushed himself backwards and raised his sword a little, just enough to slid it beneath Blackfyre, between Maelys' gorget and breastplate.

Very slowly, the huge man fell. Barristan dismounted, despite knowing better. A knight who had been unhorsed was as good as dead. But he had to make sure, see for himself that…

Maelys' eyes went somewhere behind Barristan's left shoulder. In them, the young knight saw something…

Triumph.

Mindless of the battle still raging around them, Alric Gargalen dropped to his knees and shook Maelys with his bloodied hands. "Where is my sister?" he yelled. No dying man smiled like this, unless…

"Where is she?" Alric screamed, this time unable to conceal his fear – if he even cared.

All they could hear through the armet was a wheeze. Alric reached out, took the helmet off. "Where is Aelinor?" he roared straight in the dying face.

Maelys blinked and his purple eyes slid to the palace before becoming glassy. His body shook with the power of his last breath.

"The King is dead!" a cry arose, echoed all over the battlefield, shook the island, and soared to the sky.

"Do you hear that, pirates?" Barristan screamed. "Your pretender is dead!"

But it would be another good hour of fighting before the battle was over and they headed for the palace.

The chaos of the last combats had kept Barristan close to Alric Gargalen, so he was nearby when the Dornishman spurred his stallion for the palace, his mounting fear now unbridled. Barristan felt uneasy himself. All witnesses said that Maelys had worshipped Aelinor, treated her like a goddess… so why had he died with this smile of triumph? Had he already sent her to Essos?

They had barely entered the first floor of the palace building when above them, someone threw a door open and shouted for a maester. Prince Aemon. He came running downstairs, looking around like a man who had just gone mad.

"What happened?" Alric yelled. "Is she fine?"

Aemon grabbed his cousin's hand, tried to stop him, begged him not to go upstairs. Alric pushed him away and ran for the second floor. The Prince looked at Ser Barristan and ordered, "Find a maester. Or someone who knows how to treat wounds. Lady Aelinor has been… hurt."

A little later, the knight returned with Lord Hayford's own maester in tow. A pale man-at-arms led them to the upper floor and opened a door to reveal a room brimmed with people. Lady Aelinor lay near the window, her gown bright red. Prince Duncan's son had knelt in front of her, pressing a cloth over her belly, clearly to staunch the bleeding. Her brothers and Prince Aemon formed a semi-circle around her, following every faint movement of her chest, their own breathing hitched. In the hall, Ser Brynden Tully was helping a group of men to carry away the corpses. Later, Barristan would get to know that he had killed eight men defending the door while inside, Ciar had kept holding the cloth over Lady Aelinor's would to staunch the bleeding until help could arrive.

The maester went to his knees in front of the young woman. "Well done," he told the boy. "It looks like you've kept her alive on your own. Now, let go."

Ciar didn't move.

"Let go, I said," the old man said again.

"I can't," the boy said so softly that they had to strain to hear him. "I can't move my hand."

The maester reached for him – and found out that the hand applying pressure to the young woman's wound had become so heavy and numb that it could not be moved.

Mikkel stepped forward and tried to lift it, with no success.

"Let go, Ciar," he said calmly. "She's fine now. The maester will take care of her."

But no amount of reason could make the boy's hand move. Finally, Mikkel just leaned over, took Ciar in his arms, and carried him a few steps away, leaving the maester to treat Aelinor's wounds.

Unable to look at the wounded woman, with her life and her babe's life maybe flowing away with the blood that started running anew, Barristan looked through the window. He expected that this momentous day would be marked by a miracle – a moon shining next to the sky, a golden sheen over the sky. Something had to show that the pretenders that had bloodied the land for sixty years were no more. But the day stubbornly remained dull and grey.

 


	10. Looking Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to everyone who commented, you keep me inspired!

Aelinor couldn't tell how many times she woke up, pain slicing through her belly like a blunt knife followed by a sharpened one. Over and over, she opened her eyes, gave a low whimper, someone gave touched a wet cloth to her lips and she sucked thirstily. They never gave her to drink from a goblet and when she insisted, with a barely audible voice, through cracked lips, all she got in reply was that soothing – irritating, actually – murmuring in different voices and a new cloth to suck from. Some of the voices, she recognized. Carral's. Mikkel's and Alric's. Even her cousin Aemon was here. Someone who sounded very old. Each time, she asked his name and each time she forgot it as soon as she heard it.

And the swaying. Whenever she woke up, it was always swaying, everything around and all under her. In her more lucid moments, she realized that she must be aboard a ship but more often, it just felt as if the earth was shaking. The crimson mist in her head prevented her from actually seeing anything around, so she had to rely on those who never left her alone – Alric, Carral, Mikkel, Aemon, the old man…

How much time had passed? Weeks? Months? She didn't know. But one day, when she opened her eyes, she didn't see the red mist but a chamber with rich tapestries and furniture of solid oak. It was semi-dark because the shutters were closed. Aelinor raised her hands to rub her eyes and saw how wasted they had become.

She looked around, trying to find something familiar about her surroundings but could come up with nothing. She had no idea where she was.

"Easy, easy," her mother said from somewhere near. Aelinor turned her head to one side but even that small motion caused her pain. She groaned and was relieved when Daella stood in front of her. She looked incredibly aged and more exhausted than Aelinor ever remembered her to be, pale and sleep-deprived.

"What happened?" Aelinor whispered.

Daella supported her daughter's head while Aelinor drank from the goblet her mother held to her lips. "It's over," Daella said. "You're fine now. Go to sleep."

Aelinor did so and sank back into sleep – not a restless slumber but actual deep sleep.

* * *

"She finally remembered what happened."

Daella's voice was incredibly subdued. Looking at her, Mikkel wondered whether she had hoped that his sister wouldn't remember… ever. Such a thing was impossible, of course, but with everything Daella had been going through, she might have held some peculiar self-deceits to help her cope. Sitting on the settee in the wide solar of Lord Toland's castle, she had yet to reach for the refreshments offered to her and her sons for what was expected to be – and indeed, turning into – a very intense conversation.

The two maesters – their own Girar from Saltshore and the one who served House Toland at Ghost Hill – nodded, as if they had expected it.

"That's a sign of recovery, my lady. It shows that she's well enough to focus on things other than her immediate survival."

Daella gave the two men a long look. "And what's going to happen to her?" she asked. "The wound has barely started to heal at all."

Maester Girar was in no great hurry to answer. When he did, his voice was soft and his eyes concerned. "I am afraid healing would take more time. My lady is young and strong, otherwise she wouldn't be here now, but her state is making it all harder. Her belly is expanding, stretching the cut as well. The location of the wound is another hurdle. It's in the underside of the belly and with its constant expanding, it'll be very hard to keep it dry as it goes lower, between skin folds and under the increasing weight, and that's essential to healing. Thank gods that Lady Aelinor is so slender by nature. But whatever weight she's gaining right now seems to be going straight to her belly and I know of no way to fix that. We just have to do our best to keep the cut dry and clean – fewer layers of clothing and regular drying will help."

"I was hoping that in the state she was in, she's just lose the babe," Alric said. "Are you sure you can't give her something… to help?"

Daella took a deep breath and Alric turned to her, as if the two maesters were not present at all. "Do you really want Aelinor to give birth to this babe? When it can well be Maelys Blackfyre's?"

"Oh Alric!" Daella groaned. "Don't say such things."

"It's true!"

"Please my lord, my lady," Maester Girar cut in, impatient and annoyed. "There is no use of holding this conversation. It isn't a matter of choice. I was just informing you, not having a discussion. Lady Aelinor is too far along. Any attempt to extract the babe might lead to her own demise."

Daella started weeping.

"Stop it!" Alric shouted, flying from helplessness to rage in mere moments. "Stop this whimpering right now! Aelinor isn't dead – and it was a really close call, for a while I thought she would die."

He went to the shutters and pushed them more widely apart. The Sea of Dorne came more fully into view, blue and radiant. "She will see the sun rising above those waves once again. We won't leave her, so you can stop howling – now! Do you have any idea how worse it could have been? Just half an inch above or an ounce of strength more, and we would have been planning for her funeral."

As could be expected, her son's outburst only made Daella's tears run faster. Mikkel sighed, gave his brother a reprimanding look and embraced his mother. "Alric is right, you know," he said. "As indelicate as he is in approaching the matter. Aelinor lives and that's what is important now. We were very lucky indeed."

Of course, he knew that it would be incredibly hard on his sister to give birth to a child who would forever remind her of the tragedy. No matter who the father was. Mikkel feared to ask Aelinor the question, mostly because he was almost sure what her answer would be. But they had to think of the positives, not minor things like loss of prestige, Aelinor being shunned and disdained, and whispered about for decades. That was just the hand they had been dealt and they had to make the best they could. Because it could have been far worse.

* * *

"Whose child is it?" Mikkel asked. "Eltor Dayne's, or Maelys Blackfyre's?"

Aelinor looked down. It's been a whole week after she regained consciousness but she had yet to master strength to venture outside of her chamber. She was now lying on her side on the made up bed because that was the only position where her growing belly didn't press against the wound that was taking so terribly long to scar. She was attired in a loose gown borrowed from Lord Toland's daughter. Her hair, recently washed and brushed up, was falling loosely over the pillow and bedcover, looking as dull as her eyes.

"I don't know," she said tonelessly.

That was what Mikkel had feared most. A bastard of the Blackfyre bastard they could leave out of their sight, with an obscure family, or even leave it to the King to deal with; a child of Eltor's would be a Dayne. But this? They couldn't act in good faith in this uncertainty. And he could foresee that Aelinor might go mad looking at her child and trying to guess…

"Are you sure?" he asked, insistently. "Think again! Aelinor, it's important."

In the same hollow voice, she repeated, "I don't know."

And she closed her eyes because she couldn't turn her head towards the wall without disturbing this loathsome belly.

Mikkel didn't insist – there would be no use of it. He simply stroked her cheek and murmured, "Never fear. We'll take care of both of you, little sister. All will be fine."

She was silent. Only when he was already near the door, Mikkel thought he heard her murmur, "It won't. Nothing will be fine ever again."

* * *

Another week passed before Aelinor gathered both strength and fortitude to leave her bedchamber and go out of the building. The thought of people staring and whispering behind her back – not to her face, not yet when she still bore the mark of her participation in the battle – terrified her. She felt so foul, so lowly. She didn't know how she could look anyone in the eye. But the thought of hiding forever terrified her further.

She declined her mother's offer to accompany her. She didn't need any watchdogs. She had to do it alone, without any reminder of her illustrious lineage. Because lineage would not protect her forever. There was no use to start relying on it.

Melyne came to her as soon as she and Aemon had broken their fast. Her offer to accompany her, Aelinor had accepted. Melyne might be the King's gooddaughter but she had been born a Swann of Stonehelm. Hardly someone who could make impression the way Daella could.

"You look splendid," the young woman said, trying to hide her worry behind a smile. Aelinor had indeed taken a great care in choosing the dark purple gown among the three Nymella Toland had provided her with. Her cloak was not voluminous – that would infer that she was trying to hide her state out of shame. Her hair had been washed with herbal potions and she had painted her face painstakingly. No one should see the dark bruises under her eyes, the mark of the sleep-deprived, or how sunken her cheekbones were.

"So do you," Aelinor replied. Indeed, looking at those dark-brown eyes, the same shade as her hair, and dusky skin, no one could wonder why Aemon had stood against his father, risking a lifelong banishment from the realm to have her. It was a shame, the way their relationship had strained over the years. Now, Melyne preferred to spend much time in her family's seat while Aemon stayed in King's Landing. But immediately upon hearing about their arrival at Ghost Hill which had been turned into their commanding seat, she had boarded a ship to get here. Aelinor hoped that at the end, she'd return to King's Landing with Aemon. Those two were as easy for her to get as were Alric and Arianne. Her mind simply could not fathom why her brother and his wife who had been wed for reasons that had nothing to do with heart were so happy while Melyne and Aemon, with their love match, were drifting apart.

"Come on," Aelinor said. "Let's go."

She wanted this to be done with before the cut would start bothering her again. Besides, every moment of delaying made her more vulnerable of the temptation to just leave it for tomorrow… and then the day after tomorrow… and so on.

Melyne held out a hand. Aelinor shook her head. "I can do it on my own…"

They didn't have to go too far – just a few halls, and they were no longer in the apartments that the family dwelled in. A short flight of stairs led them to a door that opened into a yard filled with people. At first, knights, servants, and women bowed out of habit, out of deference to the obvious rank of the two well-clad ladies. But when people started making their faces out, murmurs arose. More looks came their way and these looks soon turned into outright staring at Aelinor's bulging belly. Greetings became more like muffled stammers. More and more people changed direction to avoid meeting them, as if by going near Aelinor they would become infected with her dishonour. There were also those who turned their backs on her quite obviously and that brought her some strange relief. At least they showed her openly where she stood with them. The stammers hurt much, much worse.

Holding her head high, Aelinor went through the yard and entered the garden, went past the lilac-shrubs, the dahlias, the roses, the jasmine along a small arbour.

"Those worms," Melyne hissed but Aelinor shook her head swiftly. _Don't speak_ , she wanted to say, too scared to open her own mouth because she might start sobbing.

Finally, the two women sat on a sunlit bench and Aelinor squirmed because she couldn't find position that would make her comfortable. The child stirred again – hadn't stopped moving restlessly – and with pain and anger, she thought that it would better learn to keep quiet. That would be its life, as well, rejected by all.

Melyne seemed to have felt her reluctance to talk, for she didn't say a thing. A serving girl brought them tea that they didn't touch. Instead, they kept pretending that they didn't notice the looks and whispers coming their way.

_Until the tea grows cold_ , Aelinor decided. She would wait until the tea grew cold before going back to the safety of her own chamber and wiping the wound that had started stinging with sweat.

"When are you going to return to King's Landing?" she asked after a while and saw the look Melyne gave her, one that she didn't recognize.

"I don't know yet," the older woman replied. "When the last of those pirates are cleared away, I might go with Aemon."

"I don't know whether I'll ever be able to go back there," Aelinor admitted. "Or whether I'd want to."

Melyne sighed. "Let them talk. You know the truth. That's what matters."

She didn't believe it, of course. The world mattered. But she could not say so to the girl. Aelinor would have to find that on her own. Just like she had…

Aelinor's breath hissed sharply between her teeth. Melyne turned to see what she was looking at and saw Ser Gerold Hightower walking determinedly in the opposite direction. One look at Aelinor showed her that it had not been the direction the knight had been initially walking in. For a moment, Aelinor's mask had slipped and while she was staring at the back of her onetime most ardent suitor, there was pain, surprise and insult in her eyes.

"Men," Melyne said angrily. "You know why he's doing this?"

Yes, Aelinor knew. She was surprised by how injured she felt. She had never reciprocated Hightower's sympathies.

"Because he sees me as soiled," she said bitterly. That was the truth, she was soiled. Everyone would turn her back on her now, including those who had fervently wished to wed her not a year ago.

"This, too," Melyne agreed, trying to calm her down. "But mainly because he's madly in love with you, I know this." She fell silent and to her horror heard her voice say, "I also know he isn't the only one."

Aelinor leaned backward in another vain attempt to accommodate her belly and gave her a look of confusion. "What do you mean?"

"That you don't see others who aren't indifferent to you either."

Aelinor's eyes didn't leave Melyne's face. All of a sudden, the strange coldness that had taken over their relationship in the last year or two made sense. Ever since her wedding to Aemon, Melyne had been friendly to Aelinor, at the time a mere child. Despite the eight year difference between them, they had similar interests and Melyne enjoyed helping Aelinor develop hers. Aelinor had felt terribly sad at seeing the widening rift between the couple. She had been too young to understand why love hadn't been enough to keep them happy. She still wasn't sure how things between those two had started festering but at the end, they seemed more content together after having been apart, so they had started spending more time away from each other. At one of Melyne's returns from Stonehelm, Aelinor had found a sudden coldness in a relationship that had always been warm. Not that Melyne had insulted or shunned her. Aelinor could not even say what she felt the coldness in. Now, though, she suddenly realized that despite the fact that Melyne had invited her to her chambers a few times over the last years, Aemon had never been there. It would have been ridiculous if that had been the reason for Melyne's behavior! And yet…

Another memory came to mind from the sea of long forgotten, neglected, unimportant. It had been a few months before her leaving for Dorne. The two of them had been sitting in Melyne's solar when Aemon, having returned from the Kingswood earlier than expected, had joined them. All of a sudden, Melyne had suggested showing Aelinor how to apply painting on her face and what hairstyle would look good on her… She had treated her like a child! Now it all made sense, the conjectures and vague apprehensions torturing Aelinor with her unable to explain when and what she had done.

"I think you're wrong, Melyne," she said softly. Her face suddenly went white. "You're wrong and what scares me most is the fact that you think it's true."

"No," Melyne replied. Her face had also gone white but unlike Aelinor, she looked calm, as if she had finally given voice to something that had tormented her for a long time. "I am not. And you'll find that out by yourself. I just saw it before you did. And now, we have to go in. You need some rest."

She rose and helped the girl rise as well. Aelinor's strength had drained off her and she could hardly walk, this hateful belly weighing her down, the wound burning like the day Maelys had dealt it. Melyne supported her with great care and helped her go back to her room, change the gown, dry the cut. When Aelinor lay back down on her side, Melyne stroked her cheek and held her eyes for a long time.

"I am not wrong… You'll see…"

She headed for the door slowly, hesitantly, as if she wanted to turn back and say something else. But at the end, she didn't.

 


	11. Cursed

After the loud celebrations of their victory against the last Blackfyre Pretender, an unusual lull descended over King's Landing.

There were no more urgent meetings of the Small Council twice a day, no more frantic missives about burning seaports and devastated lives. Instead, all seemed to be about peace and renewal. Hope and plans for rebuilding seemed to grow peacefully, in tune with the child swelling Princess Rhaella's womb. Everyone was eager to point out that it was a good omen, that this child would one day preside over a realm of peace and stability, that it would be a symbol of peace itself.

No one spoke of the other one, the child of shame, violence, and dishonour that was growing at the end of the kingdom, to be born like a stain on its mother, stain on Westeros, stain on the dragons themselves. Everyone wanted to forget that there was a girl by the name of Aelinor Gargalen who had once been proclaimed the fairest maid in the realm, the wife any man wanted. Now, they were all trying to forget about her, sink her into oblivion, and that omission echoed soundly in the feasts and all kind of entertainments the King so generously offered to his people.

Aemon Targaryen was thinking of this silence as he walked towards the Maidenvault. After the first bouts of prayers of gratitude, the palace sept had been mostly abandoned once again and he encountered very few people on his way. The grey sky was hanging low and the sun peeked reddish between the brown branches of the trees in the gardens. _It'll be a clear day today_ , Aemon thought but his plans to stay alone in the shadow of the Maidenvault came to nothing as soon as he saw that his eldest brother and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had beaten him to it. He could not even go back because they saw him and Duncan waved him near.

Sighing, Aemon obeyed and braced himself for the attack of the huge brown and white ball that descended upon him. Nonetheless, he found himself on his back on the ground, struggling to rise against the outburst of love and the caress of the hot lolling tongue.

His brother and the Lord Commander were roaring with laughter, making no effort whatsoever to help him rise.

"Duncan," he managed angrily. "Have you no control over your dog?"

"None at all," his brother answered cheerfully, heartily amused by his trouble. "Shall I call Rhaella?" he asked innocently. "He quite likes her as well."

"No!" Aemon answered spontaneously, the image of their pregnant niece being subjected to the dog's love too terrible to bear.

The two men roared with further laughter.

"How is Melyne?" Duncan asked when, finally, Aemon got the better of the hound and managed to rise. He didn't put anything special in this question, it was just a matter of politeness, and he was taken aback by the sudden flash of hostility in his brother's eyes.

"As usual," Aemon said dryly. He had no desire to talk about this subject.

The former prince of Dragonstone and the Lord Commander looked at each other but did not comment further.

"We've got a raven from Arianne," Duncan said instead. "They are still scouring the Summer Sea for the remains of the pirates. But it looks like things are calming down."

"It was time," Aemon sighed. "How is Ciar?" he asked.

Duncan looked aside. "He's fine. He's at Salt Shore with Carral." There was a shadow over his face. Aemon wondered whether it was because Ciar preferred Carral's company to his father's so blatantly, or because with the boy's birth Duncan had finally realized what he had given up, not only for himself but the child as well.

_We all have our regrets._ Still, Aemon didn't think Duncan regretted his marriage.

And what about him?

He fell silent, sitting on one of the big rocks that stood like guards at the entrance of the Maidenvault. Melyne would arrive at King's Landing any day now and as always, the coming reunion made him anxious. He didn't know what to make of their relationship.

His wife had indeed changed quite considerably in the last few years. He supposed he had, as well. Or maybe they had started getting used to each other and the differences that had captivated them so had started pushing them away, making them see changes where only one's own perception had changed. And since that strange encounter he had had with Aelinor in Melyne's apartments a few years ago, the air between them had shifted even more. In the beginning, he had thought it was due to Melyne's sensitive nature but still he had been sure that it was only a temporary mood of hers.

But with time, the shadow in their already deteriorated relationship had not faded. Instead, it had thickened, edging close to a real rift. Only now Aemon realized that Melyne's high sensitivities seemed to always need some drama in her life, some trials that helped her colour her feelings and experiences. And while in the beginning, that had made a nice change compared to the other ladies' demureness or stupid flirtations, with time it had proved exhausting. Her prolonged stays at her family seat gave him a much needed break.

But that was only one side of his relationship with Melyne. The other one, the one that rested with him, he had barely started to realize. Since the battle at the Stepstones, he had been thinking of Aelinor much more often than before and the jests he replied to Melyne's guessworks were only an attempt on his part to chase a deeply seated perturbation. He tried to convince himself that it was only protectiveness and anger at the unfair and cruel way the world treated a girl who carried no blame at all, who had been a victim and wronged – but the truth was that in the last years he had started to appreciate the combination of sharp intellect, beauty and composed dignity that was Aelinor. She wasn't as impatient as his sister or as warm-blooded and sensitive as his wife. She could not dazzle him, who had become used to dazzling women long before she turned into one. Oh she had glamour, more than enough to turn anyone's head but that was not what attracted Aemon. He was drawn to her calm reasoning, that exquisiteness that no one could cultivate unless they carried it in their bones, her joy of life that never became hungry thirst. He could simply feel that with her, he could have a calm and happy life.

Could have had. Because he had a wife. One that he still loved. One whom he had chosen. Once, he had been expected to marry Aelinor when she grew up. He had fallen in love with Melyne instead.

"Do you want to come hunting with me for a week or two?" he asked. "In a month or so."

The other two men exchanged a look and then the Lord Commander murmured something about his shift coming soon and started walking away. Aemon's face flushed at having been so blatant. Really, did everyone know?

There was a short silence. Duncan was staring at his brother with something like sad wonder. "Are you doing all of this because of Aelinor?" he asked all of a sudden.

Aemon was silent. "No…" he said after a while. "I don't think it's only because of her…"

"Then why?" Duncan asked, incomprehending.

Aemon shrugged. "I don't know…"

He was staring at the white stone path leading to the sept. "Sometimes, I feel as if I am suffocating here."

Duncan followed his look and hesitated before going on. "Aemon, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course you can," the young man said and gave him a look of surprise before smiling slyly. "What, Duncan Targaryen has become tactful with age? Not too long ago, you would have demanded answer or given me…"

"A clout in the ear!" Duncan finished for him and they both laughed but Duncan soon became serious.

"What affected your relationship with Melyne?"

Once again, there was silence. Aemon was hesitant. Then, he said, "If someone is to blame, it's me alone. I cannot accuse Melyne in anything." He shook his head, as if he wanted to chase away an unpleasant thought. "We fell in love in each other's otherness and did not take the time to seek for some similarities. We need to separate from time to time, or else it's painful and unbearable. I don't know if you can understand me."

Duncan looked him in the eye. "I want not only to understand you but help you as well. But you didn't always give me the chance to do so."

"No, I didn't," Aemon agreed. Truth was, Duncan had never been the most considerate of men. And when he had started maturing, finally, it had taken all of them a good deal of time to accept the change. Letting Duncan help with honing a sword? Why not? Letting him help with things like feeling and reason? Why would anyone do that?

"Write to Ciar," he said all of a sudden. "Ask him what's going on with Aelinor. I… I worry about her. And I cannot write to her in person."

"Why?"

"I just can't..."

That was not entirely true. Since the first day she had risen from her sickbed in Ghost Hill his cousin had changed towards him – she was now always polite but reticent. Something had become extinct in her – and it wasn't because of the torture she had experienced. Her face, eyes, and smile were now changed as they hadn't been even as he had visited her in the first days of her recovery. Somehow, he knew it was because of Melyne – but he couldn't ask either woman what had taken place between them.

"You have this weird inclination to torture yourself…" Duncan said, smiling thoughtfully. "Very well, I will ask him. But don't expect to hear good news… The poor girl's suffering has only just started."

"Believe me, I know," Aemon said angrily, remembering how everyone had treated Aelinor as if she had the pox. "I… what's going on?"

Duncan turned around and saw the man who was hurrying towards them with a white face and a missive in his hand.

* * *

"Why is it taking so long?" Alric asked anxiously. "Two days, almost…"

Arianne smiled, to better hide her own concern. "This is her first," she said. "It always lasts longer with first babies. I can swear Doran's birth was ten years long."

"Twenty," Alric corrected, listening to the silence from the upper floor. Since the very beginning of this labour, Aelinor had not screamed once, or at least he hadn't heard.

To his horror, he heard himself say, "I'm starting to think this family is cursed, all of us."

"Alric!" Carral said sharply. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Alric said so fiercely that a handmaiden who was passing by with a bucket of water gave him a startled look. "Let's review the last, say, five years, shall we? First, Mors and Olivar died in the cradle and we have no idea why that happened, then Myara followed, at which Father had his stroke, lived like a corpse for two years and died, Uncle broke the word given at his deathbed and tied Aerys and Rhaella to each other. Then, this damned wedding came, Eltor Dayne died, half of our coasts were demolished, thousands died and thousands yet followed at the Stepstones, Aelinor was shamed for life, she'll give birth to a child that we don't know whether it is a hero's child, or a monster's child, then Melyne drowned in this shipwreck and to crown it all, Uncle is chasing the Seven know what mad plan to wake dragons. And what will you say of my Elia and her poor health? Or our beloved uncle Aerion the Monstrous? Oh, that's right, you don't remember this one. Lucky you. It looks like we're being punished for something…"

"I don't believe in such nonsense," Carral said firmly. "We're a big family, that's all. Every family has its trials, it's just that chance has been against us in those last few years. We've also had good things happening to us… and plenty."

"That's right…" Alric agreed and went quiet. "Is the wetnurse here already?" he asked. Long ago, Aelinor had stated that she wouldn't keep the babe with her, so the little one would be taken to the Water Gardens as soon as it was old enough to travel.

"Yes," Arianne said. "She's waiting upstairs. I'll go to see what's going on, as well," she added. In truth, she was just as worried as her husband and goodbrother. Aelinor was very weak, the pregnancy had been hard and the wound in her belly had barely closed. They couldn't let this birth go for much longer. Maybe they would have to give her some potion that would expel a dead child – but preserve her own life.

In the pitch of night, Aelinor's bedchamber was brightly lit by numerous torches. Two maesters and a midwife had crowded around the bed. Daella stood where her daughter could see her and held her hand. At seeing Arianne, she smiled. "Just a little more," she said to both her gooddaughter and Aelinor.

_Just a little more,_ Aelinor thought. _What does_ just a little more _mean when one is going mad with pain?_ She wasn't screaming because her throat would not open up but she wanted to scratch, to rip this thing from her womb, to cut it out if need be. Deep in her, a terrifying certainty took place. This babe was not Eltor's. Only Maelys' get would cause her such pain.

"We're almost there, my lady, almost there!" the midwife announced. "Come on, now. Push now, push!"

_I can't_ , Aelinor thought but all the same she tensed her body and pushed with all the hatred she felt toward the monster who had ruined her life and the unknown child that was killing her. The relief was sweeter than anything she had ever felt in her life and for a while, she just lay with her eyes closed, indifferent to the crying newborn, indifferent to the world, until she heard the stunned whispers and her mother's gasp.

"What?" she asked, opening her eyes in sudden alarm. "What's wrong? Is he… monstrous?"

The thought that she had given Maelys a monster like him almost made her rise – and Arianne pushed her back immediately. "Don't move," she said. "You'll toss her on the floor."

Her tone was shocked, just like everyone else's. Now, Aelinor lifted her head, very carefully, and saw the babe laid on her belly, the cord still pulsing. To her enormous relief, it only had one head.

The maesters and midwife stared, as if they were too scared to touch the child.

"What?" the Lady of Dorne snapped. "Cut this cord already!"

Awoken by this command, they sprang to action. Aelinor watched them through half-closed eyes that snapped wide open when she realized that they were trying to hide something from her.

"You have a daughter, Aelinor, a lovely daughter," her mother said.

Arianne brought the child to her; overcoming her desire to turn her head away, Aelinor placed the babe next to her and immediately unwrapped the swathing clothes, although Daella tried to stop her.

Her breath hissed between her teeth when she finally saw what the problem was. Her daughter was perfect – smooth skin, soft down on her head. Perfect in everything… except for the left hand. She didn't have one, her limb ended with a perfect oval of the wrist, with no palm and no fingers.

Aelinor's horror grew. In the spilt of a moment, she knew she couldn't send the child to the Water Gardens. Such a malformed thing would never survive in this world without her mother, to nurture and teach her how to go through life with this defect. An unwanted child, Aelinor was ready to part with readily – she did not need a living reminder of the horrors of her past. But a babe like this? She did not love her daughter but she had a certain responsibility to her, she realized as she was pushing the afterbirth.

With the feeling of doom, she handed the child back to Arianne and waited for the women to wash and change her before taking the babe once again for her fist feeding.

 


	12. Shame and Merits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who commented: you have my heartfelt gratitude and my inspirations' gratitude.

 A belated spring was descending upon the land, crowning the trees in magnificent shades of pale and deeper green. The coasts of Dorne and the Reach were slowly coming back to life after the destruction the Ninepenny Kings had wrought upon them. Far away in King's Landing, Jaehaerys Targaryen was proving his mettle, defying the expectations of all those who thought they had gotten a puppet king.

At Salt Shore, Aelinor Gargalen was sinking more deeply into despair.

"Won't you shut up?" she asked the babe she was holding. "Aren't you going to sleep, ever? Can't you be quiet, just a little?"

Her daughter clearly took that as a sign that she hadn't tormented her enough. Her wailing became louder, reaching a pitch that almost made the young woman toss her right in the bed of violets. Daella had wished to name the child after her own mother, probably hoping that something of the kindness and serenity Naeryn Targaryen had been famous for would rub off on the babe. Since Aelinor had held no real interest in the matter, Daella had gotten her wish. Not her hope, though. Naeryn seemed to live to make her mother miserable. Fevers, coughs, general fussiness, refusal to take anyone's breast but Aelinor's and then refusing to take suck as other babes did, so her mother had to keep her at the breast a good five hours of every six to keep her from dying of starvation. The babe hadn't mastered the art of nursing without making Aelinor's nipples bleed, either. And she started screaming her head off the moment her mother tried to place her in the cradle. She didn't even need to be awake – she startled at the moment she felt Aelinor removing her. The young woman had been forced to move Naeryn's bedchamber four hallways away, so she would not hear the infant screaming while she was trying to catch some sleep.

Beneath her feet, the sea spread cerulean, serene, carrying the fresh tang of salt. Aelinor avoided looking at it, especially in the direction of the small cove where she and Eltor had consummated their vows. She had been so happy that she ached. Only a year separated her from that time of joy, and now so much had changed. Her father was no more. Her uncle and cousins were no more. Eltor was no more.

And Naeryn had been born. No one could say for sure that she'd survive.

Sometimes, Aelinor didn't even know whether she wanted her to survive. Then, guilt descended upon her and made her double her ministrations until she no longer knew whether it was day or night.

"What's wrong with her now?"

Aelinor startled and looked at her nephew. As usual, Doran moved so softly that she hadn't heard his footsteps. He could have been created by the shimmering mist spreading over the hot spring flowing into the Summer Sea.

"I have no idea," Aelinor admitted. "I think she's crying just because she likes it."

Doran nodded, as if that made perfect sense, reached out and touched Naeryn's reddened cheek, making a face. The crying faded. Aelinor looked down and to her astonishment saw that her daughter was mimicking Doran's expression quite successfully.

Unfortunately, he was walking Oberyn who had just started to master the art of making steps. But he had tackled jealousy already, so at the sight of Doran touching another babe he howled, paused, and looked at his brother to make his meaning clear. Doran stepped back and Oberyn grinned broadly, showing the few teeth he already had. Aelinor laughed.

"Such a good child," she said. "He never cries unless in expressing what he needs and then giving one time to do it. What are you going to do if he does, though?"

Doran didn't look disturbed. "I'll pass him to the nursemaid or Mother," he said readily. Aelinor's smile disappeared at the realization that she did not have such a respite.

"Why are you here?" she asked. "I thought that around this hour, Mikkel has tasks for you. How does it come that you have the time to play with Oberyn?"

He shrugged. "Men from King's Landing arrived not an hour ago. My lord told me he had no need of me."

Men from King's Landing. Not the usual ravens. Men. _Mother help me, what's happening now?_

Naeryn felt her mother's anxiety and started fussing.

"Be silent," Aelinor snapped and hurried to her brother's study. She needed to go only to the courtyard to notice the bustle showing that something unusual had happened.

Her fears growing by any minute, she walked faster. Had something happened to Rhaella and Aerys? Were there problems with those lords who still insisted to know what madness had possessed her uncle to go for the wretched tragedy and loss that was Summerhall? She quite wanted to know the answer herself! Ciar had said that the wood witch, his mother's companion, never gave any advice. He was quite sure that no matter what she had revealed to King Aegon, she had not said, "You should try to wake up dragons by making the greatest pyre since the Doom of Valyria!"

Troubled and afraid, Aelinor passed by servants and knights alike, paying no mind to the bows they offered her.

When she reached Mikkel's study, she knocked and waited only a heartbeat before entering. "Mikkel," she said. "What's wrong? I heard that…"

Her brother gave her a look of surprise from behind his desk. There was no concern about him. Nothing bad had happened to anybody. Aelinor released a deep breath, immediately calming down.

Now, she looked around and felt as if someone had kicked her right in the belly.

Ronnel Arryn sat in a big chair. Two years ago, he had aspired to her hand. Now, he couldn't quite look at her. Jason Mallister who was an old friend of Carral's and had known her since her birth tried and failed to suppress a look of disgusted pity. Gerold Hightower, another one of her one-time suitors, looked at her with downright disappointment. Then, everyone's eyes went straight to the child in her arms.

Now, Aelinor realized that she should have left Naeryn in her chambers before she came. In the morbid curiosity of their faces, she realized that they had heard all kinds of tales about this babe, about her father and her infirmity. In fact, they looked quite surprised that the child resembled any other… until Naeryn decided to satisfy their curiosity by waving her hands. Her hand and stump.

Their faces changed once again, this time to superstitious horror. Ronnel Arryn even raised a hand to his face, making the sign against evil.

Shame rose in Aelinor, the desire to scream out and explain that it wasn't her fault the child was born this way, that nothing of what had happened to her had been because she had so wished. Anger made her want to throw the nearest goblet against them, with their shining swords and the honour they had gathered through the last war, the war that she had also fought in but no one gave her any recognition. Horror made her realize that it would be like this forever. She had been leading such a quiet life at Salt Shore that for a while, she hadn't had any new people looking at Naeryn for the very first time.

Mikkel's face was impassive but Aelinor saw the sparkle of anger in his eyes. He did not like to see her treated this way.

"Come on, Aelinor," he said. "Take a seat."

With bitter irony, she saw how the three men were quick to draw back in their chairs, lest she tainted them with the brush of her gown as she went by. All she wanted was to run away but pride would not let her retreat, so she held her chin high, went regally under the twelve piers holding the high ceiling, and seated herself, taking her time to settle Naeryn comfortably in her lap.

"So, my brave knights," she asked. "Why are you here?"

"I am told that His Grace has sent them to meet me," a voice said from the door. Aemon Targaryen came in, still limping slightly. His torso and legs looked grotesquely swollen by the bandages under his clothing, an angry red burn on his cheek would never fade, his left hand was still wrapped in a bandage, although it was a thinner one now. But his eyes flashed the cold air of superiority Aelinor had only ever seen in her royal uncle whenever he thought the occasion called for it. A singed eyebrow rose, making it clear that Aemon expected them to rise and remain standing in his presence. They obeyed, disquieted. Aelinor started to follow but her cousin stopped her, just as she expected that he would. It was clear that he had seen the men's behavior – and liked it not.

"Please, my lady," he said. "You're home. And I would never make blood of the dragon rise for me."

He said this in a very level and even soft voice, yet it conveyed more derision to those he deemed servants than he had ever showed before. Pleased, Aelinor saw the three knights' faces go white. Then, she looked at Mikkel who looked doubly surprised – first by her sparkle of defiance and second, by Aemon's reaction. It was the first time he spoke without being addressed first ever since he had been brought here after Summerhall on his brother the King's request, silent, shell-shocked and withdrawn.

* * *

 

"I've never seen such a serious babe," the Princess of Dorne said, cooing at Naeryn who stared at her curiously. For once, the child had stopped crying only in a few minutes after being separated from her mother and now inspected the new woman with great interest.

Aelinor looked up from her dressing table, brush still in hand. "Serious? You mean noisy. And moody."

"Well, she tries to imitate you," Arianne Martell said, kissing the stump that Naeryn extended to her. "I'm afraid you aren't very happy."

Aelinor looked at her magnificent bedchamber, at the bright cushions, the curtained bed, the exotic scents of Essosi perfumes permeating everything, the beast hides and multicoloured covers over the settees and coffers. Her sanctuary, her prison. "What should I be happy at?" she asked.

Her goodsister didn't reply.

"Go out," she said after a while. "I'll entertain Naeryn while you're away. You can see that she doesn't mind. Get some fresh air, and the world will look better."

"I will," Aelinor said and holding her breath and praying that Naeryn wouldn't start howling as soon as she saw her leave, she crept to the door. A wail trailed her, followed by Arianne's soothing voice.

Naeryn was still crying but Aelinor felt that she could not go back. If she did, she was completely capable of grabbing her babe and shaking her hard! So she headed out, where the sun was already hanging low. The aroma of daisies and violets might soothe her nerves, or so she hoped.

As soon as she saw the tall and broad figure that left the wall when she opened the door to the garden and headed for her, she knew that she was not going to find peace any time now.

"You must have taken the wrong turn, Ser," she said coldly when he halted to a stop before her.

Gerold Hightower shook his head. "No," he replied. "I hoped I might see you. I was told you were in the habit of taking a walk this time… together with the child."

"A walk," Aelinor repeated. "Yes. Usually, I prefer my own company." Her voice was cold. "And to us, she's Naeryn and not _the child_."

He flinched. "Naeryn," he said. "Yes." He drew a deep breath. "I wanted to apologize."

Hope blossomed in her, as stupid as it was fierce. There was still time for people to see how wrong their assumptions about her were. If Gerold Hightower, with his lauded sense of justice, could see it, why not others? Why not the rest of the realm? Aelinor had not yet seen twenty namedays. Naeryn was barely months old. Why should they spend the rest of their lives being shunned and looked down upon?

"Come on, Ser," she said. "Let's sit here."

She didn't want to go in the bowels of the garden alone with him. Her reputation should be stellar now. So she took a seat on a stone bench near the wall. He remained standing. The last light of the sun bathed him in glow, like a knight from the songs but more powerful. More skilled.

"Well?" she asked after a while.

He was still hesitating. "I wanted to apologize," he said. "For giving the wrong impressions. I might have left you thinking that I was blaming you, my lady. This isn't so. No one in their right mind would think that you wanted your wedding to turn this way."

The beginning was quite promising, yet something warned Aelinor not to give up too soon. He was not behaving like someone who was truly repentant. He had something in mind. "You are far from the first one who thinks I am to blame, Ser," she said drily. "It isn't something that I am unaccustomed to."

He blushed. "This is outrageous," he said, emboldened by the fact that she did not seem to hold any particular enmity against him. His sense of justice was indeed telling him that it was not fair to hold the lady accountable for Maelys' deeds… other than being disappointed that she hadn't had the courage to prefer death to dishonour. He could truly not imagine that life in dishonour was worth living. But Aelinor was young and her fear of death was understandable, although undignified. Indeed, Gerold pitied her, for he had seen what a cruel place the world was to fallen women. She was barred from a good match, barred from vising the royal court ever again, barred from people's respect, barred from everything but the comforts her kin deemed fit to give her. Would she think that it had been worth it, one day?

Aelinor shrugged. "This is the way of life," she said. "There are those who suffered worse than me. I am far from the only woman those villains took – but the women of the smallfolk do not enjoy the protection my family can provide me."

"My lady," Gerold Hightower said eagerly. "I'd like to protect you."

She looked up at him, suddenly insecure and clearly wondering what he meant. All of a sudden, Ser Gerold felt embarrassed by his own great strength. Maelys Blackfyre had been equally strong – and capable to do with her whatever he wanted to. Gerold Hightower didn't want her like this. He wanted her to want him. Why wouldn't she? She would spend her life alone, unless they could find her a much lower match than her blood suggested. He felt that he now desired her far more than he had when he had been courting her. Her misfortune had robbed her of the protection of respect knights owed to highborn maidens, leaving only the appeal of this thick moon hair, this skin without blemish, this body that looked as if it had never carried and nourished a child, those haunting lilac eyes.

"Come to me, my lady," he murmured. "Come to me tonight. Let me show you that not all men are beasts like the one who ruined your life. Let me treat you the way you deserve to be treated, show you the wonders of nature... The cruel gods have deprived me of you, the only woman I can imagine taking to wife but we need not be utterly deprived of…"

Aelinor's eyes narrowed. "And for how long would this last?" she asked, cold as ice. "Would it end before you take the white upon your return at King's Landing, or am I supposed to accompany you there so you can stash me somewhere like a common whore? Why, am I any different! I am Maelys Blackfyre's whore, after all!"

He blushed. He hadn't expected that she would know about his imminent entering the ranks of the Kingsguard. _Ronnel or Jason must have started talking_ , he thought. But really, what could she expect? That he'd still want to wed her, with the dishonour clinging to her? With her ability of giving birth to healthy children under so much suspicion?

Aelinor did not look away from him. She could read his mind like an open book and each word hit her like a boulder. That was reality. That was how her life would be from now on. Even those who did not blame her for being dishonoured would not fail taking her dishonour into account.

"So, a little dalliance before you say your vows is fine, eh, Ser?" she said, her voice whipping like a lash. "And then you can forget the little Dornish whore you failed."

He looked at her, bewildered. He had no idea what she was talking about. Cold fury held her in her seat as she enlightened him. "As if you and your companions – and the Kingsguard, as well! – did Maelys this much harm! Would this have happened to me if you had prevented him from landing here in the day of my wedding? Tell me! You were those who should have stopped him in Essos years ago, do you hear me! But no, you sat on your hands and waited fir the first strike to come, and now I am the one dishonoured while you're all preening around when without me stealing Maelys' plans your mothers might have been praying to the Stranger right now... I deserve this place in the Kingsguard more than you, do you hear me, more than you, I did more for the Seven Kingdoms than you did and I did Maelys more harm than you and the other brutes put together!"

He stood before her, stunned and shaking with resentment. How she could boast with lulling Maelys to negligence by spreading her legs wide apart and then stealing the defense plans was beyond him.

"You have no idea of what you are talking about… You've lost your mind. Stop before someone hears you and recognizes just how low you have fallen."

Aelinor had no intention of stopping. "How low _I_ have fallen? What about you? All of you noble knights who are supposed to protect women? How did you protect me? That's right, you didn't. I had to protect myself with what I had. What a fraud you are! I am telling you once again that I harmed Maelys more than you did, yes, I fought more fiercely than you did because he almost butchered me when I had no means to protect myself while you hid in your armour and only took it off to accept the accolades… Now, get out of here… you scoundrel… And remember, I harmed him more than you did, with all your training and prowess... I might have just saved your pitiful life, you know… saved you…"

He got out because he suddenly realized that she stood nothing to lose by a scandal. He did. So he turned and strode out of the door, praying that she would not start screaming her outrageous insults and boasts.

Aelinor rose from the bench, breathing heavily. White cloud of rage veiled her eyes but when the fabric tore, she saw her entire life spread before her, the life that awaited her, the life of more Gerold Hightowers than she cared to count. She fell back and buried her face in her hands.

"Now," her mother said from behind her. "That was impressive. I dare say he'll never forget this incident."

Aelinor didn't look at her. "I don't care what he forgets or remembers," she said. "I am only angry with myself for believing, just for a moment, that he could see."

"Someone will," Daella said, sitting next to her to stroke her hair. "One day, you'll have a match that will turn Gerold Hightower green with malice."

"They don't want me," Aelinor said bitterly, going to her knees to bury her face in Daella's lap. "And you know that, Mother. Ever since Naeryn's birth, men are not only repulsed but scared. Who can guarantee that I'll be able to give them a healthy heir?"

Daella wanted to comfort her, to say that it was all in Aelinor's imagination. But her daughter would take this as the comforting lie it was. An old pain seared her heart once again: her other, deceased daughter had suffered an infirmity. Sure, it had been a result of a childhood illness and not something bred in Daella's womb but yet there had been suggestions about the family's health. The only thing that had saved Daella from condemnation had been the fact that she had given birth to three healthy boys and Aelinor herself.

"When I was your age," she said softly, "I was desperate, so desperate. I had just been released from a husband who tormented me, yet I could not rejoice. I was certain that life held no promise for me. That I'd live my life alone. But I didn't. Don't give up, my child. Don't give up on life and hope. You're so young. Don't summon misery."

"I didn't," Aelinor murmured. "It found me on its own will and spread over to those around me."

The dusk came, then the evening, and they were still there – Daella on the bench and Aelinor kneeling on the ground, her face hidden in her mother's lap.

It was already late in the night when the two women headed for the living quarters. Aelinor felt somewhat guilty – Naeryn had clearly taken a shine to Arianne and with Aelinor being away, she had probably clung to her aunt, giving a deafening howl each time Arianne would try to leave her in the cradle. And with her two babes' deaths, Arianne could not bear the sight of a crying infant without trying to find out what was wrong and fix it in any way possible. So it was very likely that she had been arrested in Aelinor's bedchamber for the night with Naeryn holding her hostage.

The apology Aelinor meant to offer died away as she saw that Naeryn was sleeping peacefully, probably for the first time since birth. The nursemaid was slumbering on her stool. Aelinor leaned over the cradle to make sure the babe was comfortable and well covered and Naeryn woke up. Aelinor cursed in her mind. She had just dared to hope that her back would have some time to recover but no, it was either carrying Naeryn around the entire night or leaving her shrieking with the nursemaid. She had never seen such an unpleasant child! Her nieces and nephews hadn't been such, for certain!

"Come here," she murmured, reaching down to take Naeryn.

And then… then her babe looked up, saw her and smiled. Aelinor gasped. Somehow, she had never thought that Naeryn would smile. Certainly not at her, the mother who had no desire to be such. And yet the smile on the face of this small unwanted creature tugged something in her, some cord in her heart that she had not known existed. She took Naeryn out and lifted her, so their faces were close to each other. Something made her press her nose against her daughter's, making one of those small noises that never came naturally to her.

When she removed the child at an arm's distance, she saw another one of those new smiles. And laughed.

From her chair, Daella sighed with relief. She had started to fear that Aelinor would never show any interest in her daughter beyond duty. Yet another thought lent bitterness to her gratitude of being mistaken: if Aelinor started loving this child, she'd open herself for the same heartache Daella had felt for her dead daughter. Naeryn's deformity was visible, just like Myara's twisted spine had been, and it would separate her from the others as certainly as her other disadvantages would. Myara who had had all the advantages of good birth and social standing had still been scorned and pitied by men. Not overtly, of course, but no less truly. The beauty of her face had not been enough. Daella had loved her daughter and suffered her infirmity with her. And the fact that Myara had been treated differently than the other highborn maidens had become only more obvious with Aelinor's growing up. Aelinor, with her perfect figure and fluid movements. Aelinor who at a very young age had started showing all the grace the illness had deprived her older sister from. Daella still remembered those days when she had been hoping fervently that a young man would show up… a young man who could see something other than her Targaryen blood and her husband's office of Hand of the King. And they had started coming, more and more of them, but paying court to Aelinor.

 


	13. A Meal and a Flower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to all those who commented, you're pure gold!

At nightfall, the terraces and yards at Salt Shore turned into magnificent sparkling gardens. Unless they entertained guests, Lord and Lady Gargalen avoided late night feasts and the servants were usually able to finish with their daily work quite early, so they, too, could sit out and enjoy the cool breeze of the upcoming summer. That was a privilege lent to all kitchen girls, each stable boy – a delightful rest after their daily work. The bright shawls shone like flowers, light enough not to bring heat but thick enough to chase away the slight chill of the night wind.

Mikkel, his family, and the closest members of his household occupied the huge open space immediately under the roof, the one with wicker chairs and tables in the same red shade of marble that graced the floor. On the outside of the terrace, there was a string of brackets holding small torches circling the perimeter, placed low enough as not to impede leaning against the railing; among them, pots of roses and lilacs looked eerily beautiful in the unnatural colours the lighting lent them. The sea sang almost beneath their feet, shining like a fine dark fabric strewn with pearls. The children played at weird games of theirs without septas running after them and their parents talked over goblets of cold clear water or blood orange juice.

Aelinor looked out the window and wished she could be upstairs with the others already. Instead, she again shook her head, wishing that she had something to wad her ears with. Her daughter's wails were so loud that she couldn't hear her own thoughts. Not that she'd want to – right now, they were focused on her fears that Naeryn would never learn to take care of herself, do even the smallest tasks on her own. They had already celebrated her second nameday but she gave no indication that she would learn how to walk, although she complied when Aelinor held her and walked her; she stretched her arms and legs readily when she was being dressed but couldn't get enough coordination to shrug even into the simplest dress. And now, she was looking at Aelinor with horror and betrayal in her eyes. She was being hurt and her mother wasn't doing anything to stop it!

_Maybe we could untie her arm_ , Aelinor thought, looking away. But reality soon came back: such a thing would impede on Naeryn's progress. They had tried and failed. She had to learn to eat by herself but whenever they decided that she could understand how, she reached for the meal with both hands, just like everyone else did, soiling the stump and sending the food flying or splashing out. It seemed that she hadn't fully grasped yet that unlike everyone else, she didn't have both hands. She had a hand. A single one. Although she often looked at others' hands and then at her hand and stump with confused eyes and used the words she knew to say that there was a difference, she still tried to do things with the hand she lacked. Just like the others.

Tears sprang to Aelinor's eyes at the thought that the separation of her daughter from the rest of the world had already begun, started by no one else than her own mother. Two weeks ago, she had made the decision to have Naeryn eat alone, with her left arm tied to her torso, so she would be unable to use it even if she wanted to. The fact that the child squirmed and still tried to reach over with the deformed limb only made the ties tighten more, so they gave her quite real, physical pain. Later, Aelinor would kiss the red welts better and try to explain that they'd untie the arm during meals as soon as Naeryn was a big enough girl not to extend it toward the meals. Naeryn promised that she wouldn't – and each time they untied her, she tried to, the handmaidens told Aelinor. She had decided that she wouldn't be present to her daughter's meals because she feared that she would give up and untie her. Which was exactly what she wanted to do now. She clasped her hands to stop herself.

Finally, the screams, squirming, and general torture that was Naeryn's meal ended. Aelinor wiped the child's face and took her in her arms. Angrily, Naeryn tried to squirm away, but Aelinor held her tight and finally, she succumbed and leaned her head against her mother's shoulder, exhausted of crying.

"Come on," Aelinor crooned. "We're going upstairs."

That livened Naeryn up and she squirmed a little, this time with eagerness, although her small body still shook with residual sobs.

Tired to the bones, Aelinor started climbing the stairs leading to the red terrace. Inwardly, she regretted her decision to check on Naeryn's progress like this. She should have done it in a way that wouldn't let her daughter see her. The handmaidens assured her that it was not this bad, usual. But the thought that she had upset Naeryn by being there without protecting her was hardly more comforting!

On the terrace, her goblet of blood orange juice with just a drop of wine was waiting for her. At seeing her, Carral instantly rose and came near, holding his hands out. "Look who we have here," he said, smiling broadly. "Come here, big girl."

Naeryn's eyes shone and she immediately reached out for him. He took her from his sister and carried her to the railing, showing her the stars. Did she think that tonight, there were more of them fallen into the sea? Naeryn was still sobbing now and then, but she tried to count the stars, very seriously. She could now count to eight, after all. Her uncle kept talking and amusing her and she reacted with calming down and more smiles.

"What's wrong?" Mikkel asked. "Am I mistaken, or is she angry with you?"

Aelinor was sipping from her goblet with her eyes closed and the feeling that she had run ten miles. "She is," she said. "Tonight, I went to watch her eating her supper. A big mistake."

"Yes, it was."

Aelinor opened her eyes and laughed a little. "For gods' sake, Mikkel! That wasn't very kind of you."

"But it was truthful." He didn't look remorseful in the least. "Anyway, if you want empty reassurances, just say it, and I'll duly deliver."

The young woman looked away. "I don't know what I want," she admitted. It was not a lie – she wanted Naeryn to be like the other children, she wanted to be sure – not knowing how exactly – that she was Eltor's, she wanted none of it to have happened but she didn't quite not want it because that would mean wishing Naeryn away… The bond she felt with her daughter was expanding with time, with each illness and each new word, erasing some of the pain, only to replace it with a new one when every day showed anew how hard life would be for Naeryn. Mikkel's firstborn and Carral's twins were two years older, Mikkel's second – just one. Mikkel's third, Gillerd, was two months younger. Aelinor had a good basic to compare – every day – what a child Naeryn's age should be able to do. She was not envious of her nephews' and nieces' achievement but she wished Naeryn could develop with the speed they did. As it was, she had given up on crawling when she had hurt herself repeatedly. Now, Aelinor felt guilty for not encouraging her to try again but seeing her falling flat on her face, with blood on her nose and mouth after trying to balance on all fours – or three – had been terrifying. Especially when all her attempts hadn't led to real crawling.

"She doesn't need empty reassurances," Aemon Targaryen cut in. "Naeryn will learn, in time. She's smart. And her vocabulary is comparable to Lanore's already, despite her being a year younger. She might learn to do things a little more slowly but she will grow up to be one of the most confident ladies in Dorne, let alone one of the most beautiful," he added without any thought of a lie. In his eyes, Naeryn was the most charming of all those children he loved. She had inherited her mother's beauty, the silver hair, the purple eyes. The Targaryen looks. The looks of his sister Rhaelle, of his mother, of Rhaella who he hadn't seen in years. He desperately wanted to make her life easier, to do for her all the things he hadn't been able to do for them, and much more. He vowed that he would, each time he woke up at night, sweating and shivering, with tear-stained cheeks and horror in his soul, alone in a home so far away from the home of his past, all the mistakes of his youth clinging back to him, his fervent desire to undo it all unfulfilled once again.

"That's right," Ranna Gargalen said, smiling. "I've never seen such an eloquent child. Carral," she called over. "Leave the poor girl alone and join us already."

She had noticed Naeryn's squirming a moment before her husband did. Carral left the child with her cousins and the dolls – one of them as big as Naeryn, silver-haired and blue-eyed – and let them play while he resumed his seat.

"I'll miss this when I leave," he said.

"You've had a raven from Arianne?" Aelinor asked, surprised. "I thought you'd have a month here, at least," she added. Her brother had returned only a week ago.

"So did I," Carral said, avoiding Ranna's eyes. He had hoped to be able to stay until their third came into the world which was expected to happen in less than two weeks. But with his climbing through the ranks of the fleet, his responsibilities also increased. "I intend to come back before the castle is finished, though," he added, smiling at Aemon.

About a year ago, when he had finally started coming out of the stupor Summerhall had left him in, when his burns had finally healed somewhat, King Jaehaerys' brother had made a decision to make his new life here. A few ravens between Salt Shore and King's Landing had provided him with a good parcel of land to build on, not even four days' ride away from Salt Shore. His new home was shaping quite nicely but he was in no hurry to leave Salt Shore. Here, he had found refuge and healing. Here, he had slowly started coming back to life… in all aspects.

"I have no worry," Aemon answered. "If I happen to have moved home already, I'd be fully expecting you to show up uninvited and unwanted and demand a full tour."

At first, his cousin just stared at him but then grinned in delight. Inseparable as children they had been, mischievous, and the soul of the party. Over the years, Aemon had slowly lost that and Summerhall had made it even worse. But that was something the old Aemon would have said without thinking.

"So, you're leaving," Aelinor said softly and closed her eyes, feeling incredibly and inexplicably upset. During the last two years, she had grown accustomed to his unassuming presence and the deep conversations they had become used to having. They rarely talked about what had been, about their own past circumstances and feelings – the topic was too painful. They were trying to escape in a world of old books, changes, and future – one they desperately wished to have but they could not really see even as they made their slow painful way to it.

Was he still thinking of Melyne? He never spoke her name. _But he must be_ , Aelinor reasoned. He had stood against his father, risking everything out of love for her. Sometimes, bitterness arose in her. Aemon had been supposed to strengthen the Targaryen tradition Duncan had broken by wedding the closest thing he had to a sister after Rhaelle's own wedding. Aelinor herself. He had flat-out refused and while Aelinor understood his reasoning – she was still a child who went out of her way to play dirty tricks on him, she looked too much like his mother and sister and Aemon was _not going to waste his life out of deference to a tradition that should have died along with the dragons if not before_ , as she had overheard him telling the King, he had a girl his own age who was different and so fascinating, one whom he could start his life with now and not in, say, five years at the earliest – now it felt different. He had been the first in the long line of men who had rejected her, found her unworthy. No amount of closeness now could erase that.

No, Melyne had been wrong. Aemon couldn't be interested in her. He had never shown it. But she didn't want him to go. It had been strangely soothing to have someone else who also fought to stay on their feet, move forward.

"Not any time soon," he assured her and then laughed. "If Naeryn disappears afterward, you can rest assured that it was I who took her, to admire her and have her close."

The little girls' exclamations made her open her eyes. Aemon had torn a branch of lilac and was holding it towards the three of them. He was smiling at them.

"It's lovely, isn't it, Naeryn?" he said. Aelinor's daughter looked particularly drawn to the violet flames of beauty that the night lilac was. He came closer to her and moved the flower in front of her eyes. "Do you want it?"

She reached out, beaming.

Aemon drew the lilac back. "You'll come to take it," he said.

Aelinor was about to snap at him because another fit of crying was more than she could bear for tonight when her breath caught. Mikkel who was seated nearest rose, went to his niece and helped her rise. She clung to his hand.

Aemon brought the flower closer to her, just out of her reach.

Naeryn let go off her uncle's hand and made two uncertain steps.

"Oh Mother!" Aelinor exclaimed, her exhaustion all but forgotten. "Did you see? She started walking! Did you see her?"

Mikkel smiled. "I saw and she did."

Aemon shrugged. "Well, what did I tell you? She was going to do it, one day. No, my sweet, I am not going to take your flower away," he added, steadying Naeryn at her feet while she clung to her new treasure.

Aelinor grabbed the child and spun around with her in a wild dance. Naeryn giggled.

"Careful, you'll fall down," Isanne warned but she was smiling. They all were.

But Aelinor kept twirling round, her face beaming and her heart singing.

Tonight was the first night when, sitting at her window as she often did, watching the courtyard and the silver moon, she saw Aemon crossing the yard and wondered where he was going; a little later, she heard his steps down the hallway, heard them fading in front of her own door and pacing there for hours. _Is he going to come to me_ , she wondered. _Do I want him to?_

She didn't know the answer. And it didn't matter. At the end, he didn't come.

 


	14. Close to Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge cookie for everyone who commented, you make writing this so much easier!
> 
> WARNING: The actual 14th chapter of this story is the epilogue of another story, Dragons Die. I just didn't think that posting the same chapter in two different stories was the right thing to do. Still, I suggest that you go over there and have a look before proceeding.

"What are you going to say if I ask you?"

Aelinor looked up from her needlework and closed her eyes for a moment. Only now, when she wasn't looking at the green scarf did she realize how tired her eyes had become. Lately, she was spending much time on her two favourite pastimes – reading and embroidering. After three years of spring, summer had come too fast, too abruptly, catching everyone unprepared. Aelinor's body had gotten accustomed to the more moderate weather of late spring and the sudden move to almost unbearable heat and air that was suffocating with its own humidity sapped her energy, making her lightheaded and constantly tired, her limbs heavy and immobile. She barely had the strength to listen to Naeryn's septa's complaints and certainly had none to spare to insist that her daughter behaved like a lady. Naeryn usually did, so some little transgressions could be forgiven. And besides, it would not matter when Naeryn grew up.

Once again, Aelinor firmly forbade herself to harbor such thoughts. Her daughter might be a bastard, and a malformed one, but she was still her daughter, with some of the best blood in Dorne flowing through her veins. Surely that would count for something.

And now Aemon was being difficult again. They were happy, weren't they? Why did he need to spoil it by insisting that she wed him? Yes, she would… one day. But the very idea of a wedding invoked horror that she could not chase over, something primal, crawling up her skin, freezing her blood. And there was this other fear. Rationally, she knew that no one was to blame for Naeryn's infirmity, that it was surely just a tragic accident. But the idea of giving birth ever again was terrifying nonetheless. It was bad enough to hold her breath till the very moment her goodsisters delivered their children. She could not live through it for herself.

"Aemon… Can't you wait for a while?"

He didn't answer immediately, to Aelinor's surprise. She had expected that he'd say he had waited for more than two years. It now occurred to her that he hadn't sounded too hopeful. _Am I taking his hope away_ , she wondered. She didn't want to do this to him. She loved him. She wanted to wed him. Just not yet.

She rose and went to the diamond-paned window overlooking a sprawling garden. Bright flowers in all shades made her smile. She had chosen most of them herself without knowing that one day, she'd live here. With Aemon. When the time had come to furnish the rooms in the new castle, New Star, they had already been together, so Aelinor had been left to do everything just as she desired – Aemon hadn't particularly cared. All he had wanted was a functional great hall and a hard surface on the bed. As long as he had a pillow under his head, he didn't mind whether it was hard or soft, so Aelinor had decorated their chambers in her favourite red and gold. Her solar was blue and silver, though, like the star Aemon had named his new home after. _You're my star_ , he often murmured late at night when they lay in their bed, listening to the sea whispering its dark-blue secret to the moon. But of late, he had been strangely silent. Maybe she hadn't noticed because of her fatigue – and also because he was as tender as always to Naeryn.

"Until what time?" he finally asked. "Aelinor, I'm a patient man. But it's been years already – and we're just where we started."

She didn't turn round – she did not want him to see her distraught face. He wasn't saying the truth – and he knew it. Since those first days when they had tentatively started to believe in a good and bright future once again – they _had_ come a long way. They lived as if they were husband and wife and that was enough for her. For a while, it had been enough for him as well.

"I am trying, Aemon. I am. It's just…"

"I know," he sighed and came close to hold her. "Fear cannot be reasoned with. In this, it's so close to love."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm so glad you understand," she murmured.

How could he not? She was not the only one who lived with all the fears of her past. "I do," he said. "And I'm trying to convince my patience as well," he added jokingly, trying to make light of the matter. Now, with her so close and her cheek against his palm, he realized that she was not well indeed. All of a sudden, Aemon wished to take it all back. What did it matter whether they wed now or in another five years? They were happy and in love.

Her cheek was hot in his cupped palm. The indisposition she had been complaining of seemed to be real. He had thought it was an attempt to avoid this very conversation. But her face was very hot, very pale, and very bloated, just like her hands. _Maybe she has the swelling sickness_ , he thought. When she had first mentioned that she was unwell, he had entertained the thought that she was with child which would make the decision for her. He knew her well enough to know that no matter her fears, she would not try to get rid of a child that she had already conceived. But her flux had come upon her shortly after, taking his hopes with him. She had not gotten better, though. _I have to send Maester Loran to see her._ The thought of her being actually sick was unbearable. He refused to even consider the fact that the swelling sickness was known to kill people.

Aelinor moved slightly, burying her face deeper against him. "And what does your patience tell you?" she asked. To his relief, there was a teasing note in her voice.

" _Hurry up, Aelinor, hurry up. Aemon is getting older with each passing day. And Aelinor? You aren't getting any younger either."_

She laughed softly. "Your patience is getting impatient. That was the moment you were supposed to tell me that you can't live without me."

"You want me to lie?"

She drew back and flicked him across the chest. "You are a bad song material, Aemon Targaryen."

"A terrible one," he agreed. "But a liar, I am not. Being unable to live without you and Naeryn? I cannot say it. Because I can live without you two. But I don't want to."

They locked eyes, silently. Aelinor reached over and stroked his cheek. "Soon, Aemon," she promised. "I swear, no matter what it takes, we will be wed soon. You've been waiting for so long. Don't give up on me now."

He stared at her intently, trying to gauge the sincerity of her reply. Deep inside, he knew that no matter whether she believed what she said, he'd wait. He had no other choice. Five years into the relationship, his feelings for her had only grown. He felt comfortable with her. Accepted as he was, instead of feeling that he should change to match Melyne's expectations. With Aelinor, happiness was not the marked moments of passion and mindless elation he still remembered so brightly with Melyne, it was a small everyday thing – a hint of a smile, a long discussion about politics and history, Naeryn's conspiratorial grin when he looked away, pretending to not have seen her when she returned from her escapades in apple garden, her hand all sticky and her hair flying in all directions… Even if Aelinor was lying, she was doing it so she would not lose him. Aemon did not doubt that she wanted the same future he wanted for them.

"Come on," Aelinor said. "I'll order a bath. You can keep me company if you'd like."

One of the curious features at the New Star was the mechanism leading water from a nearby stream straight to their bedchamber. In most castles, the lord didn't have a personal bathchamber. But cool baths had always soothed Aemon's sensitive skin and Aelinor quite enjoyed not having to make the long journey from the baths to her own chamber or sidestep the wet spaces on the carpet.

He smiled and accepted her proposal of peace. To his relief, the anxiety in her eyes melted away and she accepted the hand he held out. _One day_ , he thought. _One day, love will overcome fear. I don't care whether you believe it or you're lying to me. I'll make it come true. I'll save you from yourself, Aelinor Gargalen. I'll save you so I can have you.  
_


	15. One in a Hundred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who commented, you keep the story going.

When the footsteps coming up the Sea Tower sounded near, Aemon turned at the staircase with a ready smile that died as soon as he saw his cousin's expression. Mikkel's face was as grim as the sudden storm that had caught them on the road, making them ride their horses faster and make it to Saltshore quite drenched but before the thunderstrucks started flashing.

"What happened?" he asked.

"There was a raven from King's Landing," Mikkel said, sitting down heavily.

Aemon could easily guess what he would hear. Rhaella was expected to give birth any moment now. After the two miscarriages, no one had dared rest until the babe was safely out of the womb… and for a good reason, it seemed.

Mikkel looked up, closing his eyes against the sun. Aemon wondered what he was thinking about. Maybe for all those years of marriage before Isanne managed, miraculously, to get with child? Aemon knew that he did think of Melyne and the strain that the lack of child had proved on their already fraying relationship. But he could not imagine what it must be like to know that there would be a child… and end up without one. It was tenfold worse. He felt desperately sorry for Rhaella and Aerys and it took him a while to ask, "The babe didn't make it, did it?"

"She was stillborn," Mikkel said and paused. "It looks like they are blaming each other for it."

He said it evenly but his eyes bespoke a great worry. Aemon looked at him horrified. Until now, the only reassurance they had about their young nephew and niece who were shouldering the burden of ruling so young had been the fact that they had supported each other in their losses. If this foundation had cracked and the crack deepened, they might even lose the closeness they had shared as sublings.

What was the reason for that, though? Why did none of the children born to them live after Rhaegar?

"We shouldn't have forced them into this marriage when Rhaella was so young," Aemon finally sighed. "Ot at all."

The sun was beating harshly, not the sun of harvests and life but the sun of destruction that had the Essosi slaves fainting in their toiling. Mikkel finally opened his eyes and stared at his cousin. Although he didn't say anything, Aemon imagined that he was hearing, "No, you shouldn't have and I told you so."

Of course, it might be just his guilty conscience… After all the trouble he and his brothers had caused with their marriages for love, everyone had been desperate to fix it in any way possible.

Whinnying and clatter of horseshoes made both men look down and pale. Mikkel's sand steed, a fierce white stallion with black mane and tail was trotting in the paved courtyard, jumping over tables and settees. In the saddle, sitting astride, Naeryn was directing his movements.

Both men went cold. The child might break her neck in no time. Who had allowed her to take Star out at all? Before they could shout an order to stop right now, she dug her heels in the white flanks and horse and girl were out in a cloud of dust, getting smaller with each passing minute.

To their relief, one of the household knights followed immediately. They watched until everyone disappeared from their eyes and then looked at each other. "I don't know why I am surprised, I truly don't," Aemon murmured. Naeryn took longer to learn things that other children did easily – like eating cleanly, for one – but once she had tackled the basics, she usually plunged headlong into this, forsaking safety and any other consideration but that she had to be the mistress of it as soon as possible. And while sometimes it did no harm, other times it was downright dangerous for her. Now, she might wheedle the other girls into trying it.

But today, neither Aemon nor Mikkel were inclined to scold her and talk of common sense and prohibitions. Today, Naeryn was just the child anyone would want to have – an unruly, infuriating, _alive_ one.

* * *

The walnut-tree was still green and fresh-looking. Divided along the upper part of the trunk, it was so huge that from afar, it looked like two trees reaching for the sky, so branchy that in the lowest parts of most branches there were still drops of dew despite the late hour and the hot day. Sitting under its comfortable shadow, the children were trying to decide what to play at. "I wish Naeryn were here," Lanore muttered. Since she was Mikkel and Isanne's only daughter, she took her female cousins to be the sisters she lacked. "She would have thought of something."

"I thought of something," her brother Gillerd said.

Without looking at him, she cut him off, "I don't accept it."

As the voices grew louder, Daella smiled from the terrace high above the walnut-tree. It felt nice to listen to her grandchildren arguing. With her own children, it had driven her mad, although there had been some amusing moments as well, like Mikkel and Alric claiming that Carral had told them to splash a bucket of cold water over the Master of Coin. _How old was Carral then_ , she wondered. _Ten months or eleven?_

"When are you going to rescind Naeryn's punishment?" Isanne asked.

Aelinor shrugged. "I told her she wasn't allowed to play with the rest of them for a week and a day."

The other women looked at each other. "Isn't that… overly harsh?" Ranna finally asked.

"I don't think so," Aelinor snapped. Her exhaustion grew by the days, her nerves were on edge and she was ready to pounce at everyone who gave her the slightest provocation. "For a great offence, a great punishment should follow. She could have cracked her skull open."

Isanne reached for her cup of tea. "I am surprised Aemon took it so easily," she said. "When one of ours tries something dangerous like that, Mikkel usually gives them a good warming."

Aelinor's eyes grew cold. "If he ever takes a hand to her…" She left the threat hanging. The truth was, she grew defensive even when Aemon did as little as scold her daughter when she fully deserved it. That was one of the differences when a mother was wed to her child's father, she mused. Mikkel could spank his children and all he would get from Isanne might be a quarrel if she thought he was overly harsh. Because he was their father. Each time Aemon showed something other than complete adoration of her daughter, Aelinor wondered whether he was behaving like this because Naeryn needed some discipline, or because she was not his. Of course, she knew she was being unfair, expecting him to behave as Naeryn's father when it came to good things but not when something harsher should be done because… he wasn't her daughter's father. She hid her feelings well but the very mentioning of the possibility of Aemon raising a hand against Naeryn made her choke with anger.

"I didn't mean…"

Aelinor sighed. "I know. On the bright side, I have a daughter to scold and punish."

In the silence that followed all of them thought of poor Rhaella. Daella whose first two children had been stillborn wished strength to the girl. Perseverance not to break.

She stared at her daughter.

Aelinor felt her mother's look. "What is it?"

"Are you with child, Aelinor?"

"No," she replied curtly.

"I was going to ask you the same question, Aelinor," Ranna piped in. "You look filled out."

Aelinor shook her head. "I suppose it's a form of the swelling sickness," she said. "My flux is regular, although barely trickling, to Aemon's regret," she added, smiling awry.

"Has Maester Loran seen you?" Daella asked sharply. Her daughter truly looked unwell.

To her chagrine, Aelinor said that the Maester hadn't. "I just thought it would go away," she said, by the way of excuse.

Daella rose. "I'll take you to Maester Callar," she said in the stern tone that Aelinor remembered from the time she had been the little girl receiving punishments. "Now."

* * *

The bedchamber glowed with the soft caress of moonlight. Aelinor disliked sleeping with her curtains drawn - "One day, when the Stranger takes us, we'll sit in the darkness with no light for long enough, I'd think!" – so Aemon moved easily through the room, the objects quite visible without having to light a candle. He took his clothing off, folded it up, and left in on a chest. The loose grey dress Aelinor had worn today lay crumpled on another coffer and he frowned. She was not so careless. Since Maelys the Monstrous, she insisted that everything about her be in perfect order, going as far as scold handmaidens harshly over a goblet. A stupid goblet that the girl had moved from its usual place at Aelinor's bedside at New Star.

There was no sound coming from the bed and he lay under the covers cautiously, as not to wake her up. But her hand found his immediately and squeezed it, as cold as ice. "Why didn't you say you were awake?" he asked, surprised.

"My mother insisted that Maester Callar see me," she said. "Said she didn't trust me to have Maester Loran examine me at home."

"And?" he asked, his heart beating wildly against his chest. She couldn't be truly sick. Or if she was, she'd recover soon. Anything else was more than he could face. He had started over once, and it had been so hard. He couldn't muster the strength to do it for a second time. If something happened to her, he would not get over it. Never.

"I thought it was the swelling sickness," Aelinor said. "And I didn't want Maester Loran to confirm it."

All of a sudden, he could breathe once again. Not the swelling sickness, then. Nothing this bad.

"Maester Callar says I am with child, Aemon," Aelinor said. "That sometimes, a woman's flux kept coming even when she has conceived. One in a hundred, maybe, he said. And it fits with the symptoms I've been experiencing."

She had no memory of any symptoms with Naeryn. They must have been there but she had been so consumed with grief and fear that they simply hadn't been something to pay attention to.

"But you're healthy, aren't you?" he asked, scared about her once again. Such thing was not normal.

She came closer, making herself comfortable against his scarred body. "He says so," she murmured. "It should not disturb either the babe or me."

He felt as if a huge burden had been taken off his shoulders. The moon behind their window was suddenly a bright sun enveloping them in a blanket of warmth and hope.

"Well, Aemon?" Aelinor said.

"Well, what?" he asked.

"Will you wed me?"

He felt the huge grin splitting his face in two. She must have felt something, as well, because she laughed against his chest.

"Yes," he said.

 


	16. Blood Oranges and Old Stories

"They are so cute," Elia whispered, fascinated, as she moved her hand over the two small heads, one dark, the other… hairless? "Is she bald?" she asked, lowering her voice even further.

Naeryn shrugged. "She has some hair," she replied. "It just isn't visible because it's so fair, like Mother's and Aemon's. I think she has just as much hair as Aegyl. I am not quite sure, though. No!" she warned when Elia reached over to check.

"Now you've done it," she snapped, irritably, when huge purple eyes opened and Alaenys wailed angrily, clearly not pleased with being woken up so roughly – despite the roughness being a finger running over her soft head very gently to check for hair. The wetnurse grabbed her and took her out of the nursery before she woke Aegyl up.

"What was this?" Elia asked when they were in the antechamber, with the wetnurse seated on the upholstered bench, Alaenys in her arms. "I only touched her ever so lightly, I didn't…"

"No touch when she's sleeping," Naeryn said. "Or else, she starts…"

She had to raise her voice to be heard over the wailing. The little head started turning left and right. Naeryn sighed. "I shouldn't have done that," she said and stepped forward so the babe could see her. "Now she knows I'm here."

She extended her arm and Alaenys immediately started drooling over it, contented. "That's adorable," Elia announced when the little girl calmed down and they could hear each other again.

Naeryn rolled her eyes. "It's disgusting," she corrected. "Being drooled and spit all over…"

But she wasn't being entirely honest. It felt good when the new babes started licking her stump and drooling over it. There was no staring from those two, no pity. To the new people she met, she was an abomination – she already knew what the word meant and it _hurt_ – or an object of pity which was worse. But to the twins, she was the world – after their mother and the wetnurse, of course.

Now that Alaenys was quiet, they all did. Elia touched the babe again and thought that Alaenys would look fabulous with one of her dolls' gowns. _Yes_ , she decided. The green and silver one _. I'll bring it over tomorrow morning._ The thought of dressing Alaenys was a little scary but she had much experience with dolls and Naeryn would be there to help. What could go wrong?

"I think she likes blood oranges," she said.

Naeryn frowned, puzzled. "Why would you say that? We arrived in the Water Gardens only two days ago. She still hasn't _noticed_ the blood oranges."

Elia grinned. "Perhaps it's time she does," she said and like a mummer, took a blood orange out of her pocket and showed it to Alaenys, delighting in the small gasp and the wonder in the huge eyes that slowly started following the movement of the red-orange ball Elia moved left and right. "See?" she asked victoriously. "I told you she liked them."

"You did." Pouting a little, Naeryn blew in Alaenys' face, making her giggle. She was fighting the urge to snap at Elia, "Go away! Don't engage her! She's _my_ babe!" Was that how her mother felt when Naeryn engaged the twins? Aelinor only looked pleased but who knew? Perhaps she liked Alaenys and Aegyl better because they had two hands each and weren't Sands?

"Is that a ladies' function?" Aelinor asked from the door and Elia thew herself at her aunt. She had arrived from Sunspear only an hour ago and she still hadn't had the time to see Aelinor.

Aelinor held her tight and then at an arm's length. "So happy to see you," she said, smiling. "You look so thriving," she added. It always relaxed her when she saw her niece in particularly good health.

"You too, Aunt," the girl replied promptly, giving her a critical look. "You don't look like you've been with child, let alone two!" She grinned. "My father told me you've been _entirely_ recovered."

Aelinor felt herself blush as she went to Alaenys who had started extending her arms and squirming trying to get to her. Did Elia realize what she was saying? Aelinor doubted it. At twelve, her niece still had no interest in boys and matters of hearts and bed. But now Aelinor remembered that with the preparations for the court's impeding arrival and the crowded quarters, Alric had the room next door to her and Aemon. The sound he had heard for two days straight must have resembled the constant rapping of a fist against the wall. They had been celebrating her recovery for… well, everything.

_Well_ , Aelinor decided and raised her chin as she took her daughter from the wetnurse, _we were behind closed doors and we could do whatever we wished. Besides, Alric is not the one to be shocked or made feel uncomfortable from such things, even after reaching his one bed agreement with Arianne._ To Aelinor's amazement, they had managed to keep to it for now.

The sweet baby smell overcame her and she buried her nose in Alaenys' neck. Sometimes, she felt that the babes were so adorable that she could eat them! To her dissatisfaction, though, Alaenys' proximity triggered another reaction – one that hurt a lot. The memories of Maelys kneading her breasts and the nightmare that had been Naeryn's first months had started flashing through her mind as soon as she had first tried to nurse the twins, leading to nightmares and obsession with past horrors, so she had decided against doing it. But damn it, her body had no idea that it was supposed to stop trying, so she lived in a significant amount of pain that grew worse when holding her babes. Still, the other option was worse. She tried to focus on anything _but_ the pain.

"She's been sleeping well, my lady," the wetnurse said and smiled. "They're such good babes. So docile. I think her eyes are taking the shape of the Prince's already."

"Indeed?" Aelinor asked. She would like it if this was so. But she did not take Alaenys down to check. Sometimes, when she looked at her infants and looked for traces of their father with delight, the memory of doing so with Naeryn pierced her, the recollected fear of what she might find coming alive, so great that she wondered how she had survived it. And even when it faded, it left the lingering sense of guilt for not having felt the same unconditional love for her first babe. Indeed, in Naeryn's first months she had felt no love at all…

"Give her to me," Naeryn said, coming close, but Aelinor could say that this time, her daughter was not moved by desire to have the babe close. She just didn't want for her mother to hold Alaenys. Most of the time, Naeryn was eerily attuned to those moods of her mother's.

"No," Aelinor said, turning Alaenys to the streak of light stealing between the curtains. Sunlight fascinated the children, although full sun made them cry. Perhaps it was the dragon eyes. Naeryn had been the same, and Errol as well. The dark-eyed ones had not. Alaenys started trying to catch the light and Aelinor sighed, having discovered that it was now harder to contain her. "So big but still talking nonsense?" she asked and turned to smile at the girls. "It's good to know what she means. It makes such a nice change."

Naeryn rolled her eyes. "I could have told you what she was saying," she said in her normal voice, the jealousy gone as soon as Aelinor had shaken the guilt. Yes, she had no doubt that her daughter could have told her. Sometimes, she thought Naeryn could read even her thoughts…

"Come on," she said. "Let's go to the family pools. I want to swim. Do you want me to tell you the story of Princess Meria?" she asked and the girls agreed enthusiastically.

"You can tell us about court, instead," Naeryn suggested as they were walking down the halls. "And the King and Queen. After all, they're coming in Dorne just in a month and you know them."

Did she? Aelinor stepped under the arch leading to the pools and a sudden shiver went down her spine. She hadn't set foot at King's Landing in almost twelve years and she didn't want to. She knew what she was labeled there. How she would be seen when courtiers came. How Naeryn would be seen. And she knew that… she didn't know Rhaella and Aerys anymore. All of a sudden, she felt that she couldn't wait to see Aemon – he who had wanted her enough to take her to wife despite everything. She needed him as much as he needed her, as much to keep the world at bay as to help each other deal with the world.

_Ah well_ , she thought. _It'll just be a month or two and then they'll be gone and life will revert to what I know._ "No," she said. "Let me tell you about the Yellow Toad of Dorne instead."

The girls might have felt that something was amiss because they gave her a quick look but ultimately, they agreed.

_I can keep the rest of Westeros away_ , Aelinor thought as she stripped her clothes, giving her body a critical look – she had regained her former weight but she certainly didn't like the way the weight was _distributed_ now – before starting the tale of a time long gone.

* * *

**The End**

 


End file.
